




~ - . . •rr- ■ . 'A V. - . ' 

» . 4 ' •• 1 ' 

- : ,v--^ ■ i . , .. 

'•■' y .. *. • . 

J: ' '-V - ' ^ ■ ' !,.«•' 


•/- .■ - 

l*. ' ' Xi .y^rr 


*. ► ** 4^4 

-Sb**'-" k . 


'« * 
« 


>• 


/• 

✓ . 


/ ■ 


'■'/ ' ■^ i< " - 

'■v;v":r ^', ■;; v ^ . ' -v 

- M* . * 


-.' --- ■■ - 
^ • 

' 1 * ’ • * • '^' -• ^ W. t. 

' ^ ■ sfe ^ ^ • . ' " ' ^ . A. V. * ^ 


W!D v 


'^■ Hr. " i ‘2 • ^ 

. ji^"* ^ ^ ■• * 


•f^^ 

f 


ifv 


N- V 


• . r *. ir'V*^ 

‘>'- •-., • -i. . • *v ,. ■ 


•i* •' 


v^- >- -r ■ ’ . Kir> . ■ , ■ 

J • V'^. •, ' ' 




;- 


r 


\ 


* tf 


; ■•-' 


/ 


•-V'. . •. *, * 


».V 4 u'^ r 




»V .> 


‘V-V 

• > 




f I • • • ■> - 





4 .' 



► M* n <• 




. — r ‘ ', -^ ■' 

. . ^ .V ■• , 

fc' jl ‘ V jyT 



\ 





► 



BY MRS. NATHANIEL CONKLIN. 

(JENNIE M. DRINK WATER.) 


I. Tessa Wadsworth’s Discipline . $1.50 

II. Rue’s Helps 12mo. $1.50 

“ ‘Rue’s Helps’ is by Jennie M. Drinkvvater, the author of ‘Tessa Wads- 
worth’s Discipline.’ That was such a charming book in every way that we felt 
sure of liking this, and we have not been disappointed. The boys and girls, old 
and young alike, will relish it. It is the sort of book which ought to be multi- 
plied on our Sabbath-school library shelves.” — Congregationalist. 

III. Electa 12mo. $1.50 

“The special charm of this book is that the people in it and the scenes described 
are so natural, so true to experience, that the reader finds himself as much inter- 
ested in them as though they were real persons. This we consider very nearly 
the perfection of literary art.’’ — Christian Instructor. 

IV. Fifteen; or, Lydia’s Happenings . $1.50 

“ ‘ Fifteen ’ is as sweet and touching a story, for a very unpretending one, as 
we have met with in a long time.” — Congregationalist. 

V. Bek’s First Corner . . 12mo. $1.50 

“ It is one of the charms of Miss Drinkwater’s stories, their naturalness and 
home-likeness. ’ ’ — North Protestant. 

VI. Miss Prudence .... 12mo. $1.50 

“A bright, natural story of New England life, illustrating the power of grace 
to change the heart and keep a soul sweet and patient in adversity. A helpful 
book, free from sensationalism, and good for the Sunday-school library.” — 6". 5'. 
yournal. 

VH. The Story of Hannah . . . . $1.50 

“ Hannah’s character is well drawn, and her cheery strength and unfailing 
trust in God ought to be helpful and inspiring to those who read her bright 
words.” — S. S. Times. 

VHI. That Quisset House $1.50 

“ There are sections of the story which are equal to Mrs. Prentiss’s best writ- 
ing, as, for instance, the diary of Mrs. Huntley, with its application of God’s 
M^rd to the circumstances of human life. We trust ‘That Quisset House’ 
will be on the table of many of our best homes, we are so sure of its awakening 
thought and giving the highest pleasure. It should take a high place among the 
most prized works of religious literature.” — Christian Intelligencer. 

IX. Isobel’s Between Tinies . 12mo. $1.50 

“ Another of Jennie M. Drinkwater’s delightful storiesj full of meaning, and 
told in so pleasing a manner, that one dislikes to lay it down until the last page' 
is read.” 

X. Rizpah’s Heritage . . . 12mo. $1.50 

XI. From Flax to Linen . . 12mo. $1.50 


ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS 


From Flax to Linen. 


BY 


MRS. NATHANIEL CONKLIN 


\ \ 

\ \ '' 

--V, " 



x 


M 


(JENNIE M. DRINKWATER). 


“ Impatient for the noonday, shall we miss 
The sunrise we shall never see again ? 

And all the tender colors of the dawn, — 

The vision of the crimson clouds that hang 
Above us, and the lovely morning-star 
That will be vanished when the sun is high? 

As children might, impatient of the school. 

Despise the letters, longing for the songs 
And stories that they catch the echo of. 

The songs are written ; but first learn to spell I 
The books will keep; but if we will not learn. 

We shall not read them when the right time comes, 

Or read them wrongly and confusedly. 

And each hour has its lesson, and each life ; 

And if we miss one life, we shall not find 
Its lesson in another ; rather go 
So much the less complete forevermore. 

Still missing something that we cannot name.” 

Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King, 


C'w 




JiiL 191888 

WaSHIHG*!. 


\ 


NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 

530 Broadway. 


PZ'3‘ 

y<* 

j. • 


V 

f 


Copyright, 1888 , 

By Eobeet Caetek & Beothees. 




/ 




. _5 




CONTENTS 


OHAPTEB. , PAGE. 

• I. A GIRL 7 

II. A WOMAN 50 

III. grace’s married life 56 

IV. A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY 72 

V. A DECISION 81 

VI. greatgrandmother’s boarder .... 95 

VII. MRS. TEACHUM 112 

VHI. brushwood 118 

IX. FIVE LOAVES 138 

X. SOMETHING NEW 160 

XI. THE EPHOD 172 

XH. MARY MAXIM 197 

XHI. A GLANCE BACKWARD 204 

XIV. Emily’s question and answer . . . .218 

XV. linen 234 

XVI. THE BLESSING OF SATURDAY 247 

XVH. OCTOBER FRUITS 258 

xvHi. MISS Betsey’s errand 319 


(V) 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEB. " PAGE. 

XIX. “all right” 337 

XX. TWO PAPERS 352 

XXI. , TWENTY-EIGHT 370 

XXII. MISS Betsey’s kitchen 399 

XXIII. AROUND THE TABLE 415 

XXIV. :mary 424 

XXV. SEVEN years AFTERWARD 439 


FEOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


I. 

A GIRL. 

“Nobody likes a girl. I am a girl, therefore 
nobody likes me,” half laughed, half lamented a girl 
of twenty as she swung backward and forward with 
a graceful, indolent motion in the swing under the 
apple tree in Auntie Holbrook’s green back yard. 
Auntie Holbrook lived in Windham — ^rather the 
village was Windham, and a mile distant where 
the low-eaved, brown farm house nestled in a nook 
on the slope of a hill and near a brook, was “ The 
Backwoods.” 

Grace had heard her father call it “the Back- 
woods ” ever since she could remember ; and using 
the capitals, dated her journals and letters in this 
fashion. 

The name was a part of the charm to the city- 
born, boarding-school bred girl ; she loved the lone- 
liness. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, 

( 7 ) 


8 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


his light was hidden by the outbuildings, so that 
the nearest light in the winter darkness was the 
shining windows of the village store and post-office, 
on the brow of the hill on which small Windham 
was born, and lived and married and died. Grace’s 
father declared they did nothing else and that they 
would not have had spirit sufficient for these dar- 
ings had they not all come by nature. 

Auntie Holbrook told him with that simple 
manner of hers, that some of them were born 
again, and that came by grace. Every summer 
since she was sent to boarding school in Balti- 
more in her tenth year Grace had spent with 
dear Auntie Holbrook in the Backwoods. That 
first summer little Hester died, the third summer 
grown up John was lost at sea, the next summer 
Uncle Holbrook died suddenly one Sunday morn- 
ing, and all the other summers she and Auntie 
Holbrook, the bereaved and comforted mother, 
and the sorrowful and comforted wife, had been 
alone together. 

“ Some summer you will go,” Auntie Holbrook 
said, when Grace was twenty, and Grace answered 
that she would never go, she would always love 
her “ Backwoods ” better than any spot on the 
earth. 


A GIRL. 


9 


Mrs. Holbrook had been her best friend since her 
first step-mother died ; she was the only sister of 
her first step-mother and had taken the sobbing 
child to her arms and heart the night they watched 
together while the young step-mother slept her life 
away. 

A year afterward Grace had a second step-mother 
who had not loved her, and had urged her father 
to send her to a distant boarding school. She was 
not recalled at her step-mother’s death nor at her 
father’s fourth marriage. Her third step-mother 
whom she saw but twice, died when Grace was 
nineteen, and then the homesick school girl had 
pleaded to be taken “home,” and become her 
father’s housekeeper, but the reply to her impul- 
sive, warm-hearted coaxing letter she read but 
once and then tore it into bits in a passion of 
disappointed and indignant tears. 

“ It is not best,” were the few hurried words, 
my business takes me to Europe twice a year; I 
cannot be hampered with a girl. Stay at school as 
many years as you will, and in the summer go into 
the “ backwoods.” 

At twenty years of age Grace Manning was not 
acquainted with her father ; in her album on the 
page beside the photograph of a girl about her own 


10 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


age, with brown eyes and a sweet expression, whom 
her father had told her was the likeness and a per- 
fect one of her mother, taken a month after she 
was married, was a photograph of her father taken 
at the same time. It was a dark face with a full 
heavy beard, eyes thoughtful rather than grave, and 
a high bald forehead. He had changed since the 
picture was taken; as his daughter knew him, he 
was stern rather than grave, the full beard was as 
white as snow; his words were as sharp as his 
voice, rude to incivility. Once he had visited her 
at boarding school, kissing her when he came and 
when he went, and giving her a ten dollar gold 
piece ; afterward, before he was married the last 
time he had been with her two days at Auntie Hol- 
brook’s, but he was silent and grave ; although he 
spoke kindly and asked if she were happy and if 
she would like her monthly allowance to be in- 
creased, she could not feel at home with him ; she 
reproached herself because she felt relieved when 
the stage stopped for him in the early morning, 
and went up to her room and cried all the morn- 
ing because she had not a splendid father like 
Mary Maxim’s. 

A few pages from the last leaves of her boarding 


A GIRL. 


11 


school journal will reveal her real self to‘ you as 
description of mine will fail to do. 

Grace Manning wrote as easily and as uncon- 
sciously as she#bieathed ; her journal was a revela- 
tion of herself even more than her many-paged, 
frank, affectionate letters to Auntie Holbrook. 

“ Lately,” the journal ran, “I have awakened to 
the fact that I am wholly without any intimate 
gill friend. Something is sure to come between 
me and any somebody who loves (and admires) me 
for a while. 

I think it must be my temper. And my dispo- 
sition. And my selfishness. I am not like other 
girls because I have had no father, no mother, no 
brother, no sister ; I have nobody (but Auntie) 
and I shall always have Nobody. 

Do I outgrow girls, or do they outgrow me? 
I have had my picture taken ; Mary Maxim, (who 
doesn’t like me or admire me) says it looks like 
me; unhappy and haughty. 

But I am not haughty — I am only unhappy. All 
the girls here are so bright and happy and have 
such lovely homes to go home to ; if one hasn’t a 
father she has a mother, or if one.be an orphan she 
has a houseful of cousins ; three have step-mothers, 
but they are nice, lovely step-mothers ; I enjoy the 


12 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


enviable notoriety of having had three step-moth- 
ers. Or is it four ? 

(I’ll write and ask father.) 

I may have another ; father is not a very old 
man yet — only fifty. 

Mary Maxim’s mother died when she was fifteen 
(when Mary was) and Mary’s birthday was yester- 
day. She is a year older than I — and she declares, 
with a stamp of her foot and a flash of her splendid, 
big, black eyes that she will run away the day her 
father marries again. (But she is sure he never 
will). 

Once when she was ill and nervous — she is not 
one bit strong — she made him promise always to 
love her best, and never get married again. If I 
had a father like him I would make him promise, 
too. 

He pets her as though she were a baby ; she sits 
on his lap with his arms about her and her head on 
his shoulder and he talks to her and kisses her and 
calls her “ darling.” 

My heart would break with joy if my father 
should do that. 

She has a grandmother who loves her, her moth- 
er’s own mother (it must be nice to have an own 
mother) and an aunt who is handsome and walks 


A GIBL. 


13 


like a queen ; they live with her at Riverside, her 
father’s country seat in Virginia, because he prom- 
ised her mother that they should never go away 
from Mary. 

She lias two splendid brothers beside; Harold, 
who is five years younger, with blue eyes and curly 
yellow hair, and John, who is older, a tall, hand- 
some fellow, almost as dignified as Judge Maxim 
himself. He is a lawyer like his father. She has 
everybody and everything, and I have Nobody and 
Nothing. 

She has a second cousin, Henleigh Maxim, who 
comes to school sometimes. 

I wonder why God doesn’t love me and give me 
everything as he does Mary Maxim. 

But I am not good. 

But neither is she. She is not one whit better 
than I am. Sometimes I think she is not half as 
good. 

Some girl is always coming to me for help in 
something. Now I never go to any of them for 
help in anything. 

I help myself. 

Somehow I would rather dig things out for my- 
sell and weep my little weeps out all by myself. 


14 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Nobody thinks I need help, bat, oh, how I do ! 
I want the kind of help and sympathy that good 
fathers give. 

Least of any one does my father know his own 
child — the only blood kin I have in all this world, 
so full of fathers and mothers and brothers and 
sisters. 

My own mother was a poor little orphan girl — a 
poor factory girl, and my father was ten years 
older and quite educated and rich. 

I wonder if he .treated her as he treats me. 

I know so little of her ; her name was Grace and 
she was pretty and full of energy and mischief. If 
I could go home to father and be the grown up 
daughter in my father’s house I would be as happy 
as a queen. I would sew for him, and pour his 
coffee and talk to him and — love him. 

I could love him ; the love is in me. 

Mr. Preston, our principal, says I am the kind of 
stuff that gives and gives and gives. * 

But I give nothing to my father. 

The whole world might listen to our most pri- 
vate conversations and read our most confidential 
letters. 

“ My dear father,” I write, and he isn’t. 

“ Your loving daughter,” and I am not. 


A GIRL. 


15 


Our letters are usually about my studies and 
money — he gives me all I ask. 

But I do not want his money ; I want Mm. 

Mary has sheets -and sheets from her father. 

She calls him her lover, and he calls her his 
little sweetheart. 

She is dignified, and yet so timid and easily in- 
fluenced. Her grandmother and queenly aunt Ho- 
ratia move her at their will. 

' She is afraid of both of them. 

It must feel queer to feel afraid of people. 

She says she never was afraid of her father in 
her life, and that is the secret of her boundless 
love for him. 

I am foolish, and impulsive, and outspoken. 

I told Judge Maxim yesterday when he called, 
to take Mary to drive and told her to ask one of 
the girls and she asked me (because I helped her 
with her Algebra and Rhetoric), that I would give 
the whole world to have a father like him. 

“You can’t” said Mary. “Nobody in all the 
world has any right to iny father but me.” 

Then he laughed and said he was like the one 
hundred thousand dollar diamond he had been tell- 
ing us about, there was but one and only one had 
it. 


16 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“I suppose the happy owner can sell it or give 
it away,” I said. 

“ And then he isn’t like me,” Mary said in one 
of her flashes, “ for I can neither sell nor give.” 

Her father laughed and patted her fingers. 

I would like to write a story about them — it is 
so wonderful and beautiful; she. so delicate and 
timid and easily influenced and loving him so, and 
he so tall and splendid, with his black eyes that 
flash and grow tender, and his white moustache 
and white hair and generous, courteous manner, as 
if he were a knight and every school girl even 
were a lady. 

His talk is wise and merry at once — I do not 
wonder that Mary has a sort of worshipful love for 
him. 

He is older than my father — fifty-five. 

I have just snatched out these leaves ; they were 
all about myself. I am sick and tired of myself. 
I am in a sort of bitter, reckless mood, and have 
been for days. ^ 

Sometimes I think I am never in any other. My 
abominable pride has caused a barrier to rise up 
between myself and Mary. We do not half love 
each other — we quarrel about lessons and games 
and everything. 


A GIRL. 


17 


She is jealous because her father said if he had 
au other daughter he would wish for her to be like 
me ; she told him I was hot tempered and willful 
and spunky, and made enemies among the girls 
and was never twice alike — which is all true, and 
more beside. 

Still, I’m glad he said it. 

I want to be somebody’s girl. 

He called me Gracie^ (nobody else does) and 
made me feel like a little girl whom somebody 
loved. Mabel Halsey spent last vacation with 
Mary at Riverside ; she says the house is perfectly 
elegant. Oh, if she would only ask me. 

I could make her; I could love her and flatter 
her and wind her about my little finger ; no, I 
couldn’t, because I wouldn’t. 

I would feel too mean. 

When I quarrel with her, I am proud of myself 
— I would despise myself to get anything out of 
her. 


What is my ideal of my beautiful name ? 
Something finished — like linen finished from flax. 

Grace should be tall and rounded and perfectly 
proportioned, with sweetest, gravest eyes, and 
curves about her lips, that spoke happy things, 
2 


18 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


and a voice like the music Mary loves to play, and 
a manner — I cannot decide upon her manner, I 
never saw it — but it would grow out of what she 
was. 

Oh, I shall never be Grace. I wish my name 
were something hurried and horrid. 

I can write it here, but I wouldn’t dare speak 
it to anyone, (hot even Auntie H.) I know if I 
couldn’t go to God over and over and over again, 
I should almost despair. 

When I sa}^ “ Our Father,” I think he is like 
Mary’s father — I mean that he loves me as lov- 
ingly as Mary’s father loves her. 

And I do not want to be any more afraid of him. 
The thought of God (and Christ as God) quiets 
and rests me as nothing else does. 

He is so very strong and protecting. 

Mary almost faints in a severe thunder storm ; 
at home night or day she runs to her father, and, 
no matter how he is engaged, he gives it all up 
and takes her into his arms. 


Myself is my greatest trouble. 

I hate myself at times, so heartily and so utterly 
despise myself, that I get almost desperate. And 
then I say sharp things and bitter things, and the 
girls wonder at me, 


A GIRL, 


19 


If only I could give up my will. 

If only I need not be made to do things, but if 
I could only give up and do right things, because 
I loved to — as Jesus did when he lived on earth, 
and had hard things to do. (The girls would be 
surprised to see that, for in Bible class I am inat- 
tentive and say things to make them laugh. Last 
Sunday Mr. Preston sent me to my room. And I 
went and locked my door and cried). 

Miss Maybil, our music teacher, says I am “ wild 
and ridiculous.” 

I know I am everything bad and nothing good. 
Still I would rather be myself than even Mary 
Maxim ; my own quick, hateful, jealous, willful, 
unhappy, proud self. 

Mary has been working for the prize in music 
and I have taken it from her. I have the first 
prize in English composition, beside. 

I wish my father cared. 

They are both gold medals. I have tucked 
them away in the bottom of my trunk. 

Mary looks so pale ; I don’t see what I worked 
so hard to get it for, when I knew she wanted it 
for her father’s sake. 

I didn’t want it even for my own sake ; I simply 
wanted to be first. And I didn’t want to help 


20 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Mary, and make her love me, and invite me to 
Riverside ; I should despise myself for being so 
mean. 

Mabel is going again. 

And I am going to the Backwoods to wash 
dishes in that small kitchen, and pick peas, and 
sweep, and swing in ihy dear old swing, and roam 
in the fields and woods, and beg my father for a 
piano for my graduation present. Mary is to have 
her mother’s diamonds and go to Europe with 
her father and aunt and Henleigh Maxim. My 
father goes twice a year, but he has never thought 
of taking me. 

But he goes on business for his employers, 
and Judge Maxim goes because he can go any- 
where and do anything he likes and anything Mary 
coaxes for. 


This is the last page of my school journal. I 
can never be a school girl again, (and I am glad 
of it,) so I must write something that that Grace 
would write. 

I didn’t make any one laugh in Bible class 
to-day. I felt grave enough. 

I felt wicked enough too. I was rebellious, and 
I am rebellious this very minute. 


A GIRL. 


21 


I don’t know what gets into me. 

Mr. Preston said God’s will was the most com- 
forting thing he had to give us, and I don't believe 
it. 

I do not love his will about everything. I 
almost believe I do not love it about anything. 

I do not love it if it is his will tliat makes my 
father so far away from me, and so different from 
my ideal of a father. 

(Perhaps it isn’t ; perhaps it is my father’s 
will.) I do not love his will about myself. T do 
not want to be what I am. 

I do not want to be so friendless and desolate, 
and alone and homeless, not knowing what will 
happen next to me. 

Father writes that I must go to the Backwoods, 
that is all. 

What would he do with me if there were no 
Backwoods, I wonder? 

He couldn’t put me in an Orphan Asylum or a 
prison; he might confine me in an Insane Asylum. 

I am rebellious, and I want to be rebellious. I 
enjoy it. 

The very words G-od's will are dreadful to me. 

They mean a tight hold upon me; something 
impossible for me to do, or be ; the grasp of unre- 


22 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


lenting iron fingers upon my heart, and will, and 
life. 

How can it comfort me ? 

How can I love it? 

He said ; “ God’s will for the world is J esus.” 

That helped me and comforted me. 

I am not afraid of Jesus ; I almost love him. 

But I dare not pray as he asked us to pray — 
that we may do God’s will and have God’s will. I 
cannot; I cannot. I am afraid of it. I cannot 
and I will not. I was crying out; “I wont, I 
wont,” all the time that he was talking. 

Mary did not look afraid ; but then she said 
afterward that she was not listening; she was 
thinking about her father and Riverside. 

I don’t dare confess to any one how wicked I 
am ; they would think I am too wicked to live 
with. I’ll go in the Backwoods and live alone 
with Auntie Holbrook, who looks at me with lov- 
ing, surprised, grieved eyes, and gently suggests 
that I shall “ outgrow ” my moods. 

Mr. Preston says my moods are owing to my 
temperament. 

I wish I hadn’t any temperament. 

I wish I hadn’t any me. 


A GIRL. 


23 


The thick book with its passionate, discouraged, 
tear-stained pages was thrust into her trunk and 
packed away with her school books in Auntie Hol- 
brook’s garret, with a vow as she gave it an ener- 
getic push into a dark, dusty corner, never to 
begin another journal until she begun another self. 

It was a month afterward that she sat swinging 
under the apple tree in a pretty pink and white 
gingham that she had made herself, with her hair 
falling in curls to her waist, her plump white fin- 
gers clinging to the rope, a twinkling, mischievous 
light in her brown eyes. 

“ The child is happy to-day,” thought the little 
old lady standing on the door stone. “ It takes 
such a little to make her happy,” she sighed. 
There was a yellow, business-like envelope in the 
old lady’s hand ; it was six weeks since Grace had 
heard one word from her father — she had alluded 
to the fact this morning, with a proud little toss 
of her head ; it was humiliating to write every 
week and receive a reply whenever he chanced to 
remember that he had a daughter in existence. 

The last, “ My dear father,” was reluctantly 
written and the ending to the brief note was sim- 
ply “your daughter, Grace,” for she was his 
daughter, whether they loved each other or not. 


24 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Grace, I have something for you,’^ called Mrs. 
Holbrook. 

Grace sprang out of the swing and tripped 
towards her ; what might she not have for her? 

What might there not be in the world for her 
now that she was twenty years old ? 

“A letter,” she cried, delightedly, almost snatch- 
ing it from the extended hand. 

“ From your father.” 

“At last! I’ve almost forgotten what was in 
the last. How many nights I’ve walked up to 
the mail for it.” 

“ This came last night. You know you didn’t 
go last night. Harry Beam brought it. 

Grace had torn the envelope open and stood 
reading the large sheet with deepening seriousness 
in her face. 

“No bad news? I’m alway^s .expecting bad 
news,” said Mrs. Holbrook, tremulously. 

“What would be bad news?” cried Grace, 
lightly, “that he is going to Europe again? He 
is always going to Europe I That he doesn’t feel 
well ? He always doesn’t feel well. That I must 
stay in the backwoods ? I must^always stay in the 
backwoods. He has made his will. That is some- 
thing new. And left all his property to me. To 


A GIRL. 


25 


whom else should he leave it? But I don’t see 
why he should make his will now more than any 
other time when he has gone away. If anything 
happens — what should happen ? But if anything 
does happen Judge Maxim will take care of my 
property, and I must stay with you. I think he 
might have cared enough for me to send for me 
once in his life — or to come and say good-by. I 
wonder what Mary Maxim’s father thinks of my 
father.” 

“ Does he know him ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! That is why he sent me to Balti- 
more. Mary was there, and her father told my 
father. Auntie Holbrook,” with sudden resolve 
in tone and manner, “ does my father ever pay my 
board while I am here ? ” 

The little old face colored ; how had the girl 
divined her thought ? 

“ Tell me,” cried Grace. 

“Why, no, not yet.” 

“ And I’ve been here — how many summers ? ” 

“ That doesn’t matter, dear.” 

“ It matters to me,” said the girl, proudly ; “ he 
does not speak of money at all. And I shall not 
go back to school again. Auntie Holbrook, if you 
do not let me work and pay my board I shall run 
away.” 


26 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


“ You do work.” 

“ How much? An hour a day? I never thought 
of it. I didn’t know my father could do such a 
thing. And I have been idle and let you work for 
me. I think I must owe you all my father’s 
money,” said the sincere, grateful voice, “ but I 
haven’t any money. Only two dollars ! I counted 
it this morning.” 

‘‘ You cannot help it, child. I did not like to 
speak of it to your father. If I were rich ! But 
I am a poor woman ! Only this little place and a 
few hundreds in the bank.” 

With an indignant toss Grace threw the letter 
into the grass and sprang forward, catching the 
small old lady in her arms, exclaiming between a 
sob and a laugh : “ I will stay with you and work 

for you. I wish I could earn money for you, but 
I can’t do anything but school-girl things. Oh, I 
am so sorry and ashamed ! ” 

Auntie Holbrook patted the pink and white 
gingham shoulder, and kissed the long hair. 

“ Will you take me and own me ? Nobody ever 
owned me ! ” 

“ Somebody will some day, little girl. I do not 
expect to keep you always ; I do not want to.” 

Grace lifted her head. 


A GIRL. 


27 


‘‘ Will you let me learn to wash and iron, and 
churn and bake ? ” she asked, earnestly. 

“ And whitewash and make carpet rags ? ” 
laughed the relieved voice. 

Auntie Holbrook was relieved. Grace’s long 
summers had been a serious drain upon her slen- 
der income ; but what could she do ? She loved 
the child. 

On Christmas day, through a letter from Judge 
Maxim, Grace received tidings of her father’s sud- 
den death ; he died and was buried in England. 
By the same mail came a sympathetic letter from 
Mary: “ It would kill me if my father should die. 
He says I must say something to comfort you, but 
I do not know what comforts people in trouble. 
Grandmother says I may ask you to come to River- 
side for a long visit, but I cannot set the time ; 
this winter we are in Richmond, and Aunt Horatia 
wants me to be very gay. We may go abroad 
again in dhe summer ; Aunt Horatia cannot live 
outside of Paris. I do not think I care. Papa 
insists upon the doctor coming every week, but it 
is all nonsense ; I am not ill, I am only easily 
tired. Pardon me for talking about myself when 
you are in trouble. I wish I could help you.” 

Grace did not know whether she were “in 


28 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


trouble” or not. Her father had not written 
since the letter in which he had informed her that 
he was going abroad, and she had not replied to 
that letter because he had forgotten to give her 
any address. 

J udge Maxim wrote that her father’s will was in 
his possession, and that until she became of age he 
had the care of her small property; the income 
would be about three hundred dollars a year. The 
letter was simply business like, but it was some- 
thing to her to know that Mary Maxim’s father 
had written it, and that he had asked Mary to 
write to her. 

And some day she might go to that beautiful 
Riverside. 

She had not lost her father ; she could not lose 
what she had never had. 

“Shall you put on mourning?” asked Mrs. 
Holbrook. 

“ No,” said Grace. 

But she wept all night long for the something 
she had never had. 

After that she began another journal, because 
she was another self. 

June 14, 18 — . I do not know what I am 
writing this for ; I think it is for company. I have 


A GIBL. 


29 


no companionship beside dear old Auntie, and the 
girls from the village once in a while. 

It is five years since father died, and I am 
twenty-five. The years are just the same. I grow 
older, that is all, and Auntie grows sweeter. I 
suppose I know what I want ; I wonder if I do. 
Twice a week I walk to Stapleton (three miles dis- 
tant), to do our little shopping and get books from 
the library. 

Mr. Beam takes Auntie to church, and I walk. 
We go to the village to church ; we live nowhere — 
between a village and a town. 

Sunday the minister said something that I can- 
not forget if I would. 

To have what we desire may be good ; to wait 
for it may be better ; to have it not at all may be 
best. 

He is a young man, good and solid, but not 
brilliant ; I like to hear him read the Bible. 

June 29. — It is Sunday afternoon, and I am 
lonely and desolate ; Auntie H. is lovely, but she 
isn’t all I want ; she isn’t half of what I want. 

As I lay on the lounge with a headache (I read 
till midnight last iiight), she asked me if she should 
read the Bible to me. She always reads in the Old 
Testament. Perhaps she thinks I do not read the 


30 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Bible enough ; sometimes I do not open it for days, 
and then I will be so hungry for it that I read it 
for weeks — that and nothing else. I read a book 
through at a time. Auntie stops with a chapter. 

To-day sbe read about Samson. 

Something strikes me. I feel as if I had grown 
mentally and spiritually, after I have thought of 
something myself. 

I never look in the Commentary for the explana- 
tion of a passage until I have tried to dig it out 
for myself. 

After Samson with his mighty strength from 
the Lord had broken the new cords upon his arms 
as burnt flax, and slain single-handed a thousand 
men, he could not get for himself so small a thing 
as a drink of water. He was so afraid that he 
would die of thirst that he cried out to the Lord 
to get him water. 

His weakness was his blessing, and not his 
mighty strength; therefore I would rather be 
Samson athirst than Samson in his strength. 

The best things do not come to us in our 
strength. 

But then I am never strong ; still I am more 
self-contained than I was in my up and down 
school days. Which reminds me of Mary Maxim, 


A GIRL, 


31 


and that I have never made that visit to her River- 
side. Her summers are there still ; the boys are 
in business. John is married, and Harold is her 
darling as much as ever. 

I think she is engaged to Henleigh Maxim. She 
will not leave her father; she says she has not 
chosen between them ; she has chosen both. 

July 7. — Three days ago Auntie went to Staple- 
ton with Mrs. Beam to buy material for new com- 
fortables that we are to make together for next 
winter, and I was left alone with bread to mould 
and bake, an hour’s ironing, butter to work over 
and cake to make. 

I love housekeeping, and I love to be poor and 
have to economize. I pay Auntie three dollars a 
week, and work as hard as I can ; the three dollars 
a week i^ for all those idle summers when I did 
not think to help her at all, and never thought that 
she was heated, and patient, and economical, to 
make this home pleasant for me, the girl whose 
father sent her into the country to be rid of her, 
and never remembered to pay her board. 

Well, I was in the kitchen busy at my work, and 
singing, with my long gingham apron on, and my 
hair tucked into my sweeping cap, when a step on 
the piazza stopped my singing, and I looked up to 


V, 


32 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


see our minister, straight, and strong, and sturdj^ 
filling the small doorway. I laughed, and then he 
laughed. 

He has called often, and I feel easy with him — 
too easy, for I contradict him, and criticise his 
sermons. 

He talks about everything like anybody. He 
had the daily paper (he had walked from Staple- 
ton), and he sat down at the end of the table, 
where 1 stood beating eggs, and took out his paper 
and read all the news to me. 

It was very entertaining. I told him I wished 
he would walk from Stapleton every morning with 
the news. 

He is a young man, and our village is his first 
charge. He is as full of fun as a college boy. He 
is not one day older than I am ; I believe he is 
four months younger. 

He is not handsome, but his smoothly shaven, 
dark face is good. He has a squeak in his voice 
when he raises it ; I have begged bim not to raise 
it. Once I called at Mrs. Beam’s and heard a 
voice talking to her deaf old mother ; a doctor 
from Stapleton was attending the old lady; he 
called wliile I was there. Before he entered he 
said to Julia Beam: “ That is some old woman or 


A GIRL, 


33 


that young minister from your village.” I think 
he might study elocution and cultivate his voice. 
But his people are accustomed to his voice, and 
love what it speaks to them. lam not, and never 
shall be, and I have frankly (or bluntly) told 
him so. 

After I had given him a glass of milk and a 
huge square of Auntie’s molasses cake, we seemed 
to fall naturally into serious talk. 

It is as natural for him to be serious as to be 
amusing ; I like both best. 

I can talk to him because he is such a boy — 
younger than 1 am. 

Something in the milk, or the cake, or the 
kitchen, or in him, or in me, led to it, and I told 
him I couldn’t understand why people who were in 
real earnest didn’t get what they were praying for. 
(I meant myself.) 

“ Perhaps they are praying another prayer that 
contradicts it.” 

That was a consideration, and I considered while 
I pushed my cake tin into the oven. 

“ Did you ever ? ” I asked, closing the oven door 
and sitting down while I waited for my cake to 
bake. 

“ Yes,” he said, with his great seriousness. 

3 


34 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


I wished he would tell me about it, but I 
couldn’t ask. 

“ It may be — I do not know, but I hope so — that 
you are asking that you may be taken, flax as you 
are, and wrought into His pure and white linen, 
and this answered prayer — this granted prayer — 
would hinder.” 

“ But He could keep it from hindering.” 

“ So He could. He could do a thousand things 
that He does not do. It might hinder something 
that He means to do for you when you are fifty 
years old. He sees a long way ahead.” 

That was all the thought I could take for one 
day, so I made believe I was busy with my cake 
baking, and he began to talk about the wonderful 
bridge they are talking about building between 
New York and Brooklyn. 

And then he asked me about New York, and I 
had to acknowledge that, although I was born there 
and it was my father’s home, that my personal 
knowledge of it consisted in being driven through 
it twice a year on my way to and from boarding 
school. And then a question or two brought out 
the story of my life; my forlorn, homesick life. 

Perhaps that helped along; I do not know — I 
did not mean to help along, but before I knew it 


A GIRL. 


35 


he had asked me, me^ to become his wife, and I was 
saying “ no.” I could not think of such a thing. 
I never could be a minister’s wife, and I never 
could be his wife. 

And when he asked me why not, I had to say in 
cold, hard, truthful words : “ I do not love you ; 
I do not love you one bit ; I only like you.” He 
dropped his paper on the floor and went away. 

I do not know what I did, but I know I took his 
glass to the pump in the sink and rinsed out the 
milk, and picked up his paper for Auntie to read, 
and looked at my cake, and it was burnt as black 
as a cinder. 

I am so sorry for him that my heart feels broken. 
He is such . a boy, younger than I am, that I never 
thought of it. 

September 15. — Judge Maxim spent five hours 
with me to-day. He left Mary in New York; they 
are on their wsiy to Brooktown, a place he likes to 
spend a week or two in every year ; he told us 
about an old house there — Baron Steuben’s head- 
quarters ; an old lady owns it — a remarkable old 
lady, who seems like a page out of history herself, 
he says. 

He came to talk to me about my money; it is 
still invested where my father left it ; I told him 


36 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


I knew nothing about such things ; I would trust 
him, and he could do as he thought wisest. He 
said I was nothing of a business woman, and 
Auntie told him that I had not even a natural love 
of money, and she was glad I had some one to take 
care of it for me. 

He asked me what I would do if I should lose 
it. I have never thought ; I do not know how to 
earn my living. The poems and stories I write 
would never sell ; besides, I burn them all. I can 
do housework ; I told him I would go into some- 
body’s kitchen and make it the neatest and bright- 
est place in the world. 

Mary could not do even that. He said : “ I 

wish our boarding school could make girls self- 
supporting.” 

“ Many of the girls are,” I hastened to say ; 
“ Minnie Place teaches Latin and Greek ; Sadie 
Frost teaches music, and Nannie Harrison is the 
principal of a school.” 

“ Then you and Mary are the helpless ones ; 
some one must look after you. You have never 
accepted that invitation to Riverside.” 

“No, sir,” I said in such a tone that he laughed. 
He is more splendid than ever, but he does not 
seem as strong. He is going abroad for mental 


A GIBL. 


37 


rest. When he went away he asked me if I were 
satisfied with my life. 

“ No,” I said ; “I think I can do more than I am 
doing here ; I feel wasted.” 

He looked at me a moment as I have seen him 
look at Mary. 

“You have known me a long time ?” he said. 

“ Oh, yes, indeed ; since I was ten years old.” 

And then he took me into his arms and kissed 
me, just as he takes Mary and kisses her. My 
eyes were so full of glad tears that I hid my face. 
I never had a father. 

“I will leave Mary in New York on our way 
home, and come and spend a day with you,” he 
said. 

And I could only say that I would be so glad. 

I hope it will not make Mary angry. 

Perhaps she will send for me to go to Riverside. 
But I forgot ; they live there only in the summer. 
She will go abroad with her father this winter. I 
wish I knew about Henleigh Maxim. He is not 
like Mary; he is sunshiny, and comical, and lovar 
ble — like a woman, and not like a man. 

I told Auntie that the Judge kissed me. 

“ I don’t wonder,” was all she said. 

16th. — I think I must be making this book 


38 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


to grow up to, for I certainly write down some 
thoughts that I dimly understand. 

This is one of them. 

An old friend of Auntie’s came last night, and 
she persuaded her to stay all night, and go home 
in the stage this morning. 

She is quite old, and has seen “ a great deal of 
trouble,” Auntie says. 

I wonder what “ a great deal of trouble ” would 
be to me; I can think of nothing but having 
Auntie taken away from me. 

I have not kept up with the girls, or they have 
not kept up with me, excepting Mary, after an odd 
kind of fashion, which is not keeping up at all. 

Auntie’s friend is a talker; she likes to talk 
about what she has gone through, and it was like 
a book to us — real, wonderful happenings, unex- 
pected marriages, her own marriage, and all the 
delightfulness and unexpectedness that led to it ; 
it was like one of the old Bible stories. She talked 
about prayer as easily as Auntie talks about quilt- 
ing and making pickles. 

That must be because she is so old. 

But Auntie is old and she does not. 

It startled me a little at first ; it did not seem 


A GIRL. 


39 


reverent for her to speak of praying about the 
queerest, most everyday things. 

We listened till after midnight, and I laughed 
with the tears in my eyes, and had tears in my 
eyes over one story while I was laughing at an- 
other. But what I want to grow up to is this: 
“ I prayed for something once over fifteen years,” 
she said. 

“ Was it some one thing ? ” I asked. 

Auntie let me ask that kind of questions. 

(Auntie never can speak of anything religious ; 
but she is real good, nevertheless, and charitable, 
and always goes to communion.) 

“ Some one thing,” she repeated. 

(How I did want to kn'ow what it was !) 

“And then you got it?” 

“ No ! ” she said, sternly, and after waiting a 
moment her voice became gentle ; “ my prayer was 
answered in giving something I did not want, that 
I could not ask ; something I fought against and 
rebelled against, and said I would not take or have, 
or have anything to do with; something that I 
began to hate. It was something to take and 
something to do.” 

“ Could you take it ? ” 

“ I did. I had to ; He made me ; He moved me 


40 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


to, at first with submission, then with gratitude, as 
He showed it to me, so beautiful in itself, and so 
good for me, and then with eager and satisfied 
desire, and it became a more blessed thing to me 
than in the ordinary nature of things the other 
could ever be. That is the way He forgave me.” 

“ What a lovely and sweet way to forgive,” I 
said. 

“ How God forgives is the sweetest thing in the 
world to learn,” she said. 

I know this must be true. 

Some things outside of the Bible are just as 
true as the things in the Bible, and this is one of 
them. 

I want to be forgiven. * 

But nobody knows it. 

I have not given up my will yet. 

I give up a little bit at a time. 

But I am learning that God’s will for the world 
is Jesus. 

17th. — I feel like writing every day. I think I 
like to date the days, because each one is one day 
nearer seeing Mary’s father. I am doing little 
things to make the house, our poor, rough house, 
look pretty to him. I think I will ask him to talk 
to me out in the back yard where the swing is ; 


A GIBL. 


41 


he said he was coming to tell me something and 
ask me something. My wildest wish cannot go 
beyond wishing he would ask me to go to Europe 
with Mary and himself. But three hundred dol- 
lars a year would not pay my expenses, and who 
would stay with Auntie. I have thought about 
Julia Beam. 

It is like my foolishness to arrange things with- 
out any foundation to arrange them on. 

I have no dresses either — only my one black 
silk, my gray merino, two lawns, one gingham, one 
calico — not one of them fit to wear where Mary is 
trailing around in all her elegance. 

She might take me for a maid. 

Wouldn’t I be a fine “ companion ? ” 

When I have to support myself I will be some- 
body’s companion. 

I must learn to read aloud ; but I do read aloud 
every evening. 

I don’t know why the thought should come to 
me to-day, when I am so full of my plans (I wish 
I didn’t have to make disappointments for myself), 
that the three are grouped together : the stranger, 
the fatherless, and the‘ widow. 

I have not had a home of my own since I was a 
very little girl ; so I have been a stranger. 


42 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


And fatherless all my life. 

I think it would kill me to be a widow. 

God must think them three very sad things ; 
perhaps the saddest. 

They are so un comforted. 

18th. — “ You have spoiled that girl.” 

Mrs. Beam said it to Auntie half an hour ago. 
I was in the kitchen canning peaches, the door 
leading into the sitting-room was open, and how 
could I help hearing it ? 

“ You have let her have her own way, and her 
own opinions, and read everything, and do as she 
pleased; that is enough to spoil any girl with a 
strong will.” 

“ She is sweet and unselfish, anyway.” 

That was Auntie’s dear, soft voice, and I blessed 
her for saying it. 

“You have spoiled her for everything but living 
alone with you. She wanted to be a hermit, and 
you let her be a hermit.” 

Thinking I had heard sufficient to cure any van- 
ity lingering in me, I called out that I was the lis- 
tener who was hearing no good of herself, but not 
before Auntie’s protesting voice had chimed in : 

“ You can’t say that she hasn’t a sweet face and 
a pretty manner.” 


A GIRL. 


43 


I was too ashamed after that, and ran up the 
back kitchen stairs, and left my peaches to boil 
over. I , am spoiled ! I think I was born spoiled. 
I am really sorry for people who have to “get 
along ” with me. 

19th. — Auntie H. has begun to unspoil me ; she 
has been telling me all my grievous faults. It 
ended in a fit of crying and running oft to the 
fields for golden-rod and asters. 

(That was my ending, not Auntie’s.) 

I don’t dare tell any one — I never tell any one 
anything ; but what I would like best to do would 
be to put my dear, good, real, best, wise self into 
words with all that life has opened my eyes and 
heart to, and have it help some girl to be a better 
girl and a better woman than Grace Manning. But 
I suppose it would not be real unless I put my hor- 
rid, jealous, envious, selfish, hot-headed and quick- 
tongued self in ! 

I hate to think I am flax ; I will not, for flax has 
to be put through such terrible hard work before it 
is finished into linen and bleached. 

But if I am flax I cannot be satisfied until I am 
linen. 

I have found about the seven angels clothed in 
pure and white linen. 


44 


FBOM FLAX TO LINIfN. 


I have learned something else, too. (I am always 
learning something.) 

Every human being who is saved is the Father’s 
gift to the Son. 

I do want God to give me to Jesus. 

And Jesus is God’s gift to every one who is 
saved. 

He gives us to each other. 

God gives me to Jesus, and gives Jesus to me. 

I almost wish never to learn another thing, or 
have another new thought, but to be satisfied with 
that all my life. It is enough to satisfy the hun- 
griest human soul. 

Not that I thought that out myself. 

Dunbar Merritt said it last Sunday. 

He has not called since that dreadful morning in 
the kitchen. I wish he knew how sorry I am. I 
wish he would love some sweet and bright girl 
worthier of him than I am. 

Oh, dear ! I’m lonely. It’s a new thing for me to 
be lonely. I think Mary’s father stirred me up to 
it. So few people call. Auntie loves solitude ; I so 
seldom go to the village. 

Like the cocoon I have to spin out of myself; 
and I spin all sorts of silly things — plans for my- 
self too wild to write out, and stories about girls 


A GIRL. 


45 


who had fathers and mothers, and poems abont 
what I think, and feel, and hope for, and dare not 
hope for. 

I told Auntie to-day I would get frantic and 
have a frenzy. I’m so tired of being a tame thing, 
I want to be a squirrel or a bird. 

She said she could spare me for a week, or a 
month, if Julia would come and stay nights, and 
asked me where I wanted to go and what I wanted 
to do. 

“ Everywhere and everything,” I said. 

Oct. 2d. It is too solemn and glad to write 
about. He came and we had our talk in the back 
yard under the apple tree sitting on a low bough. 

He told me something : that he has loved me a 
long time, ever since I was a homesick girl at 
school. 

And he asked me something: to take Mary’s 
place, and more than Mary’s place ; to be his wife 
and go away with him. 

I cannot catch my breath yet. 

Mary is to be married in the middle of October, 
and we are to be married the first of November 
and sail that same day. 

How could I think that God would be so good 
to me! 


46 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Grace Manning’s journal was ended ; the school 
girl journal was discovered in its dusty hiding 
place, and the two volumes laid away with her 
girlish treasures and locked up ready to be sent to 
Riverside when Grace Maxim returned from 
Europe. Seven days before Mary Maxim’s wed- 
ding day, Henleigh Maxim was taken ill at River- 
side. In three days he became unconscious, 
lingering twent3^-four hours without speaking one 
word to Mary, who never left him, and then he 
died. 

He was buried upon the day set for his wedding 
day. “Your father will not marry now,” her 
grandmother comforted her. 

“ He could not be so heartless,” added Aunt 
Horatia. 

“ You must go with him and take care of him,” 
added her grandmother, seeking to rouse her ; for 
Mary had not eaten and had spoken only in mon- 
osyllables since the hour Henleigh Maxim died. 

“ He will marry if you do not,” persisted Aunt 
Horatia. 

“ Yes,” said Mary, “ do not hinder. Do not 
break his heart as mine is broken.” 

“ She isn’t in her right mind,” whispered her 
grandmother to Aunt Horatia. “ She can stop this 
shameful marriage and no one else can.” 


A GIRL, 


47 


Mary heard the whispered words and the old 
fire fiashed into her eyes. 

“ Send for my father, I’ll tell him he shall not 
sacrifice himself for me. I know I shall die; he 
wants some comfort.” 

“Her mind is wandering,” whispered Aunt 
Horatia, “ she was bitter enough a week ago.” 

The second marriage was not delayed ; the 
Judge was in haste to be off, he told Auntie Hoi- 
brook, and on the morning of the day decided 
upon Grace w.as married in Auntie Holbrook’s 
cheerful little parlor. 

Auntie Holbrook could not understand why 
Grace was so firm in her decision to be married by 
a minister from Stapleton, whom she had heard 
preach but once ; but the child was “ spoiled ” and 
would always have her own way. 

She explained to Mr. Merritt that Grace was 
always a little willful and he must not think any- 
thing of it. 

Harold Maxim came to the wedding and kissed 
his young step-mother ; John refused to come, 
pleading urgent business ; Mary was too ill to 
leave her room. 

“Shall we go to Riverside?” Grace’s husband 
asked her. 


48 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“You know best,” Grace answered timidly. “I 
would like to see Mary.” 

“ And take her with us ? ” he asked, studying 
the eager, troubled eyes. 

“I don’t know,” said Grace, “I do not think 
she will go.” 

Two days were spent at Riverside, dreary days 
for the bride. Mrs. Henleigh was frigidly civil to 
her; Miss Henleigh managed to avoid her by 
attendance upon Mary, and poor Mary was too ill 
to speak beyond the languid word of good-by, that 
Grace answered sobbing. “ Your father would not 
go, but the physician says he must,” said Grace, 
“and you are coming as soon as you can.” 

“Do not weary her,” commanded the grand- 
mother, “she has had too much excitement 
already.” 

Grace went out into the corridor and laid her 
hand upon her husband’s arm. 

“ May we not wait awhile. I am afraid Mary 

“We cannot wait one day. A physician in New 
York told me something that had I known it one 
week earlier, Gracie, you should not have married 
me. Your old husband is a very sick man, dear. 
Are you sorry you married me ? ” 


A GIBL. 


49 


Standing on tiptoe and bringing his white head 
down to her lips, she wound both arms about his 
neck and whispered; “I am more glad than ever.” 

After one year abroad they returned to River- 
side. The Judge was not benefited by foreign 
treatment. A French physician advised the quiet 
and comfort of his own home. “ Your husband 
has brain trouble, madam, and he knows it,” he 
said pityingly to the poor young wife who ques- 
tioned him so eagerly. 

They found Mary her usual self physically, but 
the old flash and fun were gone, she moved about 
the house a sad, silent woman. 

“ I am glad father has you,” she said hurriedly 
to Grace, the night of the return, “ but I do not 
dare say it aloud.” 

After ten years of life in her husband’s sick- 
room at Riverside, Grace returned to Auntie Hol- 
brook’s a widow. She had not seen her since the 
morning of her marriage. 

Had not Mrs. Holbrook expected her she would 
not have recognized the happy girl who left her on 
her wedding morning in the dark-eyed, worn 
woman who stood before her. 

She was a widow and desolate. 

4 


II. 


A WOMAN. 

“Will he not much more clothe you?” 

Grace Maxim asked herself the question ; that 
“ much more ” was the spring of her life. Thrust- 
ing the bit of paper on which she had been scrib- 
bling into her writing desk (she had a habit of 
scribbling on bits of paper) she ran down stairs to 
ask Auntie Holbrook if she might make muffins 
for tea. Mr. Merritt, who often brought his wife 
to Auntie Holbrook’s to tea, was coming this after- 
noon. He told Auntie Holbrook that Mrs. Maxim 
reminded him of them of old who saw God and 
did eat and drink. 

Her busy life had ended two years ago ; these 
two years of her widowhood she had worked and 
studied in “ The Backwoods,” doing some of the 
many doings of her girlhood, but oh, how differ- 
ently ! 

Now she saw God. 

At thirty-five she found herself again alone in 
the world, writing to Auntie Holbrook on the day 
( 50 ) 


A WOMAN. 


51 


of her husband’s funeral: “May I come back 
again ? ” she received word in the old lady’s 
cramped hand : “ Come as soon as you can and 
stay.” 

That first night she called her chamber “ Peace” 
and afterward “My sunshine.” 

From the first beam of the morning the sunshine 
stayed all day, not leaving the western window 
until the western sky grew dark; she awoke in 
the sunshine and breathed in it all day long, at 
first she thought she only breathed. All she 
craved was sleep and sunshine. 

“ They will bring me to life,” she said to her 
sympathetic listener that first morning. 

As soon as Mrs. Holbrook received the word 
from Grace, she began to plan how she might 
make the chamber of her childhood and girlhood 
splendid enough for the splendid widow of Judge 
Maxim, little thinking how Grace longed for the 
rag carpet, the chest of drawers and high bedstead 
that had made the room seem quaint to her board- 
ing school eyes ; the wide, low-ceiled room was 
modernized by the assistance of the minister’s wife 
into a fashionable chamber, that Auntie Holbrook 
stood upon the threshold and viewed with endless 
satisfaction. Pretty matting was laid upon the 


52 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


rough, uneven floor, a handsome suit of ash was 
pushed into the place of the chest of drawers and 
tail-posted bedstead ; simple white curtains were 
tied back from the many paned-windows, the 
whitewashed walls were covered with a light paper 
with trailing vines of shades in gray running over 
it ; the fringed covers upon the marble of bureau 
and washstand were pure white; she could not 
put bits of mourning here and there, but bits of 
white would do instead, even if it were making 
the room more ready for a bride than a widow. 

“ Grace has sent me money,” she explained to 
Mrs. Merritt, “ and I saved it up.” 

The sunshine was streaming in when Auntie 
Holbrook threw open the door for Grace to enter. 
“ Oh,” cried Grace, with a shiver, and then : 
“Auntie, it is not the place for me, I want to 
creep away and die.” 

“Nonsense ! ” cried the moved old lady, “ If you 
must die, die in the sunshine.” 

In her heavy crape as she stood in the middle 
of the low room beside the little woman in her 
dark calico and linen collar, she was not at all 
“ splendid,” not at all what Mrs. Holbrook’s fancy 
had pictured her ; the brown eyes were darker than 
they used to be and nervously wide open, there 


A WOMAJV. 


53 


were hollows worn by tears and watching in her 
sallow cheeks ; her ungloved hand reminded one 
of a bird’s claw, so thin and bloodless it was; her 
manner was confused, her utterance hesitating and 
broken. 

“Poor darling,” ejaculated Auntie Holbrook. 

“ I want nothing on this earth so much as to go 
to sleep and stay asleep. I haven’t averaged three 
hours sleep at one time in twenty-four hours for 
years ; Pve been afraid I was losing my mind, but 
I am beginning to collect myself and speak cohe- 
rently. 

“Shut the blinds and cover me up; never 
waken me, for it is my life.” 

That afternoon was exactly two years ago. 
Mrs. Holbrook had invited the minister and his 
wife with their seven year old Gladys, to come to 
tea in commemoration of Grace’s home-coming. 

Mrs. Merritt was Grace’s old friend and neigh- 
bor, Julia Beam ; Grace loved the minister’s wife 
and the minister’s child. Julia had been like a 
daughter to Auntie Holbrook during the first years 
of Grace’s marriage. 

When Grace appeared in the kitchen doorway 
this afternoon. Auntie Holbrook looked up from 
the strawberries she was sugaring to think she was 


54 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


like the Grace Manning who married J udge 
Maxim twelve years ago when she was twenty-five 
and he was sixty. 

Her cheeks were round to-day with their old, 
healthful tint ; the brown eyes were not nervous 
and too wide open, they were alight with the light 
of the something within that Auntie Holbrook 
wondered about. Had her smile not been so sweet, 
it would have been too grave ; bad Auntie Hol- 
brook known the girl's description of her ideal 
“ Grace,” she would have recognized it in the 
finished woman before her. 

“Grace should be tall and rounded and per- 
fectly proportioned, with sweetest, gravest eyes, 
and curves about her lips that spoke happy things, 
and a voice like the music Mary loves to play, and 
a manner — I cannot decide upon her manner, I 
never saw it — but it should grow out of what she 
was.” She had forgotten her fancy and the jour- 
nals were burnt long ago at Riverside. 

They were read aloud to her husband in his 
restless afternoons ; she was glad she had written 
them. 

“Grace, you are well named,” said Mrs. Hol- 
brook, as she stood at the roller towel wiping the 
tips of her fingers. 


A WOMAJSr. 


55 


“ Yes,” returned Grace, with the humility that 
was the sweetest thing about her, “ Grace is all I 
have, and all I am, and all I want. I am the rich- 
est woman in the world.” 

“With twenty-five dollars a month!” was the 
incredulous exclamation ; “ just what you had 
before you were married.” 

“ Oh, I save something ! There they are, at the 
gate ! Send Gladys in to me ! How late they 
are I ” 

Grace Maxim’s world was a spiritual world in 
which she lived naturally, and a natural world in 
which she lived spiritually. 

The school room, the Backwoods, that year 
abroad, and the sick-room, held all the years of 
her life. What she was to do with herself next, 
now that she was ready and rested, was her one 
thought and prayer. 

She was not restless, but she was not willing to 
stay in the Backwoods. 


III. 


grace’s married life. 

One morning that summer Grace came down to 
breakfast with a very serious face. Auntie Hol- 
brook’s coffee in her tiny, old-fashioned cups was 
always delicious, but Grace scarcely tasted it ; she 
broke her bread into pieces and crumbled it upon 
her plate; Auntie Holbrook watched her with evi- 
dent uneasiness. 

If Grace should want to go away again, what 
would she do? 

Before, there was Julia Beam ; but who was 
there this time? Besides, Grace was more neces- 
sary to her now than ever. 

“ Auntie Holbrook ! ” 

The words were very hard to be uttered ; 
Grace’s fingers were busy still. 

“ Auntie Holbrook ! I have been with you two 
years and five weeks ! I must go away.” 

“O Grace,” with a note of disappointment in 
the falling inflection of her voice, “and only yes- 
terday I told Mrs. Beam you would never go. I 
( 56 ). 


GEACWS MARBIEB LIFE, 


57 


don’t know how I can live without you ! I am 
twelve years older than I was twelve years ago.” 

Auntie Holbrook was a little, old woman with 
hair as white as wool, and a soft, fair, sweet face 
like a baby’s ; tears stood in her blue eyes as she 
dropped her biscuit and looked into the earnest 
and saddened face opposite. 

“ Of late I have a way of lying awake an hour 
or two before the dawn and in the dark stillness — 
the dark, cool, sweet stillness of the morning — hav- 
ing a good thinking time all to myself. It is more 
refreshing and growing than sleep.” 

“Where are you going? Not back to those 
people — ” 

“ Never back to those people ! They had ten 
years of me ! I do not know. I cannot decide 
until I know more fully what 1 wish to do.” 

“ What shall you do ? You do not have to earn 
your own living even if you are not rich.” 

“ That I do not know. It is not for money’s 
sake ; you know I don’t love money,” with a piti- 
ful attempt at a smile. 

“Then what do you know?” with a gesture of 
impatience. “You don’t know where you are 
going, nor what you are going for ! ” 

“I know that I must go; that is enough to 


58 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


know at first. I ain waiting as the eyes of the 
maiden wait upon the hand of her mistress.” 

“ O Grace,” with a comical little groan of dis- 
tress, “I wish you didn’t take the Bible so. Who 
does, beside yon? Julia doesn’t, and she is a min- 
ister’s wife. I never saw anybody but my old 
friend, Elmira Easton.” 

“ I remember that talk that lasted till past mid- 
night,” said Grace, with brightened eyes. “ I 
would love to take life like that.” 

“ She is dead, did I tell you ? Found dead one 
morning. She wanted to go to sleep and never 
wake up.” 

“ She has waked up ! And she is more glad 
than ever that she took the Bible so.” 

“ Why can’t you be good and do good toT folks 
and read your Bible and say your prayers and go 
to communion, and not think everything in the 
Bible means you? That’s the only thing about 
you that you carry too far ! You would be perfect 
but for that.” 

“ Oh, Auntie, dear ! I wouldn’t be anything 
but for that. I am only beginning ; it has been so 
hard for me to learn, and I don’t know yet. If 
you had had years of being shut up in a sick room 
when every nerve you were made of was shrieking 


GBACE^S MABBIED LIFE. 


59 


for air and sunshine and a moment to breathe 
freely your own breath, you would have cried out 
and been answered as I was with the air and sun- 
shine and the breath of life in God’s Word, and you 
would have begun to breathe his breath and pant 
for it, and know that you would suffocate without 
it. Even that time I had to plead for, and steal, 
and take it out of my few, few hours of sleep. I 
was the hand and the foot, the eye and the ear, 
the rest and the energy, the hope and the very life 
of those large, dark rooms where my poor husband 
dragged out his existence ; it wasn’t life. He 
often cried like a child if I left him longer than he 
thought I would be gone, and you know how he 
changed his will and struck out the handsome pro- 
vision he made for me the first year of our mar- 
riage, because I told him one night that I would 
die unless I could sleep all night. I ran away 
from him. I was wild for want of sleep, I was not 
myself. 

“I hid myself and locked myself in and slept for 
hours and hours. I do not know how many, and 
the worry and fright of it — he thought I would 
never come back — brought on the worst attack he 
ever had — his trouble was heart and brain — and 
nobody could find me, and they thought I had 


60 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


killed him, and Mary fainted and Aunt Horatia 
ha*d hysterics. In the morning, or as soon as he 
was strong enough, somebody influenced him — I 
never knew. They sent for John and his lawyer 
and he made another will and left me three hun- 
dred a year. My father’s money was lost some- 
how. It was left as he invested it at his request, 
and after that was lost I had none to send you. I 
couldn’t explain then ; I knew you would not 
blame me ; you were sure nothing could change me 
toward you. 

“He left three hundred thousand, I know, and he 
left me an annuity of three hundred a year. 

“John said it was all I had before I was married ; 
he was afraid of John ; he was afraid of them all, 
excepting Harold and Mary and me. He knew us 
three when he knew no one else. But Harold was 
in Egypt when he died ; he was better that year 
he died than he had been for five years. The phy- 
sicians said he might live for years, he was so well 
nourished and nursed. That last year like our 
first, was our happiest year. I did not want to 
sleep then; I wanted to be awake every moment 
to be with him. But he had forgotten about his 
second will then, and often spoke of the years of 
comfort I would have at Riverside. I would not 


GRACES S MARRIED LIFE. 


61 


have dared tell him, even if I had wanted to. I 
never loved money, you know; the excitement 
they would have made might have snapped his 
life any time. I loved him. I did not love his 
money. He would never let me leave him after 
that terrible night. I had my air and exercise 
when he slept. Mary would have been kind to 
me had she dared ; but she was born afraid of peo- 
ple, and her illnesses made her more timid and 
weak. Her grandmother has a hold upon her that 
I never could understand, and Aunt Horatia has 
it in a less degree— so has John. Harold was 
away a great deal and never understood. Oh, 
how I wanted to tell him about Mary’s bondage ! 
The Richmond house was given to John when he 
married. Mary spent very little time with them. 
She was happiest with her father. 

“ The grandmother lived in fear that I would in- 
fluence my husband to change his will ; she kept a 
watch upon me as well as she could ; she told me 
that I had married a sick old man for his money 
and position, and I was well paid. She said her 
poor daughter’s children should not be cheated out 
of their rights ! I laughed when she first said it ; 
it was too ridiculous.” 

Grace’s words were rapid and her voice seemed 


62 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


to become more tense and sharp with every incisive 
syllable. 

“ His physicians said he must never be excited ; 
but at first I did excite him, so no wonder they all 
distrusted me and hated me, and thought I did not 
love him. I was jealous of Mary and I was hate- 
ful to her, and told her her father loved me best, 
for he had told me so. I was cruel, and hard, and 
unjust to them all, never thinking how hard it was 
for them for a strange girl to come and take Mary’s 
place. You do not know what bitter things I said, 
for I was not afraid of any of them, not even of 
John. I even said sharp and bitter words to my 
husband, forgetting that his brain was bewildered ; 
I thought he had changed towards me, and for 
awhile he had my worst self to contend with ; I 
was mad, I was not myself ; but it w^ all such a 
dreadful, dreadful disappointment, and I had never 
been sick in my life, and knew nothing about it. I 
know I made^iim worse at times ; they said I 
would kill him with my moods and freaks, but he 
always wanted me just the same ; his words were 
as hard and sharp as mine. When I told him, and 
they heard me, that I would rather have died than 
married him had I known what I must go through, 
all he said was ; ‘ Poor little girl ! I wish you 
had ! ’ That broke my heart, and I fell on my 


GRACE’S MARRIED LIFE. 63 

knees beside his chair and cried as though my 
heart were breaking. 

“ They all laid that up against me ; John spoke 
of it before the lawyer when the will was read. 

“ Mary never forgot it. How could she ? oh, 
how could she ? 

“ What had I but God ? And God who would 
speak to me and love me when nobody else could. 
He gave me sleep; when I was too weary, and 
excited, and angry with some one of them, to quiet 
myself I would throw myself down and pray that 
He would rest my spirit and put me to sleep. I 
lived in God, I slept in Him ; how can I but listen 
to Him and do everything He tells me ? ” 

The blue eyes opened like a child’s : “ Oh ! 
Grace, was it so bad? And you never told me!” 

“I shall never tell any one again. I do not ex- 
cuse myself; I brought a great deal of it upon 
myself; Harold told me so, and tried to reason 
with me. Do not think hard of my husband I He 
was so old and sick, and he loved me dearly. I 
know now you will understand how God has for- 
given me and kept me alive. I crept into His 
arms like a penitent, frightened child; when I 
could not forgive them He gave me forgiveness.” 

“ I don’t feel like forgiving them,” said Aunti^ 
Holbrook, with unusual sharpness. 


64 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“You did not see me; you do not know their 
provocation.” 

“ They would have killed a gentle and yielding 
girl,” said Mrs. Holbrook, her indignation gather- 
ing strength. 

“Sometimes I thought so; I felt as if I were 
fighting for my life and my rights, but I might 
have resisted in a different spirit. I should now ! 
Oh, if I might only live those first years over 
again ! ” 

“ I don’t believe you worried him as much as 
you think,” comforted the distressed voice. 

“I did — more than I think. I knew it after- 
ward; I aggravated his disease — Mary said so. 
She said she warned him that sweet as I was I 
could be a tempest. He laughed when she re- 
peated this, and he laughed at the time, but he 
learned how true it was.” 

“Poor darling, you had no one to take your 
part,” sighed the old lady, stretching over to pat 
Grace’s nervous fingers. 

“ My husband did when he was strong, but he 
soon became so ill — in mind ; his physical strength 
was long in failing utterly ; he was almost entirely 
helpless three years. I didn’t know such refined 
people, and people who had such an overabun- 


GBACE^S MABBIEB LIFE. 


65 


dance, could care so much for money as those two 
old ladies did, money has always been so little to 
me ; but I cannot understand them any more than 
they can understand me. I think they grudged 
everything my husband showered upon me, but 
he gave me so much, diamonds like Mary’s and 
elegant dresses, I wore them for his sake, to be 
a bride adorned for her husband, but I didn’t care 
for them, and they thought I did. They said I 
worshiped my beauty and my style, and I never 
knew I had either. 

“ He tried to tell them one day how little money 
in itself was to me; he said every breath I drew 
was a breath to give and not to get (wasn’t he 
lovely to say such a thing?) and he became so ex- 
cited that he had an attack of his heart trouble, 
and they said I had worked him up to it by com- 
plaining, and that it was^ cruel to leave me alone 
with him. He used to urge the old lady and Miss 
Henleigh to go to Richmond, but they never 
stayed long; they said they loved Riverside. 
After awhile I did not care for anything they 
said, and Harold said my spirit was broken, and 
John said my quiet ways were more aggravating 
than temper. 

“ Do you remember how somebody came between 

5 


66 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Madame Guion and her husband ? Her oldest son 
was taught to hate and revile her. 

“ How I have read her writings ! I found the 
books on a top shelf in the library, and carried 
them off to our rooms ; some parts I read to the 
Judge. I missed them one day, and suspected 
grandmother had hidden them. She would have 
kept the sunlight from shining on me if she could. 
My two little ones died so early ; the doctor said 
it was well, they would not have grown up strong. 
It was after the second one died that I found 
Madame Guion ; she lived her hard life two hun- 
dred years b.efore I lived mine, but, oh, how I cried 
over it ! ” 

“ You poor thing! ” interjected Auntie Holbrook, 
wiping her eyes with her napkin, “ no wonder I 
was frightened at the first sight of you.” 

“You are not frightened now?” said Grace, 
smiling. 

Mrs. Holbrook looked perplexed. 

“ The wonder to me is that you could get your 
self back again ; .1 wonder that you can laugh as 
you do.” 

“I am a continual wonder to myself; had any- 
one told me that I should look as I do now, and 
take an interest in everything, I should have be- 


GBACWS MARRIED LIFE. 67 

lieved it impossible. I could not die, I had to 
live ; there are sweet things left in life.” 

“ The sap in you didn’t dry up.” 

“ No,” said Grace ; “ when the branch abides in 
the vine it lives on the life of the vine, otherwise 
I should have died. Auntie, dear, that is how I 
live now.” 

Auntie Holbrook, who could not “talk,” said 
simply, “ I believe it.” 

The hand Grace laid upon the table in slight 
emphasis wore the heavy gold band of her wedding 
morning, and oyer that sparkled the diamond clus- 
ter he put upon her finger one twilight under the 
apple tree in the back yard, promising her that she 
had but to speak to have her will. 

“ I have but one will,” she replied ; “ to be to 
you more than you think.” 

Many a time in those years that she longed to 
live over again had she given her hand a fling as 
though she would fling off the badges of her servi- 
tude ; once she had cried out to herself that she 
would gladly cut her finger off if she might not 
be rid of them in any other way. Intense, impetu- 
ous, self-willed, capable of a hatred as passionate as 
her love, with no effort at self-control, it was no 
marvel that after one of her bursts of passion at 


68 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


some injustice of Mrs. Henleigh, that Judge 
Maxim’s daughter had said to him: “Papa, you 
have married a mad woman ! ” 

“ You have bound together to drive me wild,” 
said Grace ; “ sometimes I am afraid of myself.” 

When his mother-in-law told him that his new 
wife had become a broken-spirited, melancholy 
thing, the J udge had answered, sternly : “ If she 
is, you have made her so.” 

One day his physician remarked: “You have a 
most devoted wife, Judge.” 

“ I have,” was the quick reply, “ and at times 
no one appreciates her more than her husband — my 
one prayer for her is that I may never cease to 
know her face, and touch, and step, and voice ; I 
believe it would kill her.” 

“ She is losing her vitality,” proceeded the doc- 
tor, cautiously; “can you not release her for a 
drive once a day, or a row on the river ? ” 

“ They are all fools compared to her,” replied 
the Judge, in a changed tone ; “ even my man 
whom I have had for years cannot rub me as she 
does.” 

“ Pardon me, but I speak in your interest as well 
as her own ; she may die before you do.” 

“ What do you advise ? ” 


GB ACE’S MABRIED LIFE. 


69 


“ Just what I said.” 

“ I will think of it.” 

He thought of it once and then forgot it ; she 
was young and full of life ; it was only the old 
who died, he could not look into her face and 
believe that she would ever die. 

As she looked down upon her hand she remem- 
bered his often repeated : “ Gracie, I couldn’t live 
without you.” And yet for awhile she had lost 
her love for him — she thought she hated him ; she 
had been so young and free, he must have known 
into what bondage he was bringing her ! 

It had been harder to lose her love for him than 
to believe that he had lost his love for her ; after 
those first years she had prayed : “ Give me not 
that old proud, adoring love back again that was 
worthless, but give me love like that in Thine own 
heart — a love that can hold on, and be patient, and 
keep on giving.” 

The answer came ; the second love was to the 
first as the strength of water is to the strength of 
wine. Her love held on, and was patient, and 
kept on giving.' 

One midnight he whispered to his wife as she 
watched alone beside him: “Wasn’t there some- 
thing about another will ? Did you tell me ? Did 


70 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


you read about it in the newspaper? What makes 
me think of it? Don’t let anybody wrong you, 
Gracie. I’m such an old man, and so sick, and 
I forget so soon. I’ve been worse, you know, 
since that day in Paris. You are my blessing.” 

The morning found him asleep ; he slept that 
day and the next. His wife was asleep when he 
died, sitting beside him her head dropped upon 
his pillow, and a heavy hand was laid upon her 
shoulder before she could be aroused. 

Mrs. Henleigh told John that it was all of a 
piece with her heartlessness. 

When the will was read aloud she sat with 
averted face, her head resting upon her hand ; 
not a muscle of her face stirred. Miss Henleigh 
wondered if she heard one word, or if she had 
schooled herself to such perfection of indifference. 

Mary fainted, and was taken from the room ; 
she had made her father a promise that she dared 
not keep, a promise that she dreamed of, and woke 
sobbing. 

Had her husband’s eldest son entered Auntie 
Holbrook’s sitting-room that morning he would 
not have recognized, at the first glance, his 
father’s wife ; a broken and bowed woman in 
deepest mourning left his father’s house — this 


GB ACE’S MARRIED LIFE. 


71 


woman in the white dress, as simply made as in 
her girlhood, holding herself erect, with a flush 
upon her cheek and a brave light in her eyes, was 
not the woman his grandmother and aunt had mis- 
represented and moved him to despise. 

His father’s wife, as he had been taught to un- 
derstand her, deserved the dishonor of her fate; 
he could not but admire her when she said in her 
low sweet voice, with such pride and such humility, 
that she had no claim upon his father’s estate. 

“ I would not wrong his children any sooner 
than I would wrong him,” many times she had 
said to herself. 

Mrs. Holbrook sighed as she rattled the dishes ; 
Grace seemed to be in a reverie, looking down at 
her rings. 

“Well, Grace, if you must — ” 

“ Of course, I must ! It is so right to go that it 
is wrong not to. Letta Beam will come and be 
your daughter as Julia was, and, if she doesn’t 
suit. I’ll And somebody that you will love so that 
I shall become jealous.” 

As she knelt in prayer that night she said aloud: 
“ Lord, I can do nothing, and I am glad I can do 
nothing, for now I know whatever good is done, 
Thou must do it all.” 


IV. 


A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Grace thought she could see the beginning of 
this desire to be used (she dared not put it u%e 
herself^ in one remembered day in the school- 
room ; she was pouring over her Geometry with a 
nervous headache ; she did not know what it grew 
out of, but it certainly grew; what a long, long 
preparation she had had! 

Sitting the next morning after her talk with Mrs. 
Holbrook in her own nook under the apple tree, 
with her Bible in her hand, she chanced, if any- 
thing in her life did chance, to open in Ezekiel. 

She read how the prophet obeyed the voice of 
the Lord in bitterness in the heat of his spirit ; 
the hand of the Lord was strong upon him, and he 
could not resist. 

Again and again and again the Lord came unto 
himj saying — and he listened, and told the people 
all that the Lord had spoken to him. 

“And I spake unto them of the captivity all the 
things that the Lord had showed me.” 

( 72 ) 


A BIT OF AUTOBIOGBAPHT. 


73 


This was the testimony of the Prophet Ezekiel ; 
how about the man Ezekiel ? 

Was he so real that his wife called him Ezekiel? 

So real that she might say : “ Ezekiel, will you 
take a walk by the river with me ? ’’ 

Was he as real a man as she was a real woman? 

That heat and bitterness of spirit were like her- 
self ; did listening to the Lord and teaching the 
people cost him anything ? 

Did he have to give up the thing he loved best, 
or suffer any other trying discipline ? 

That “heat” and “bitterness” were so human 
and so real ; had any one called him a “ tempest ” 
when he was a boy ? 

Looking carefully through the book she counted 
the number of times that the Lord appeared to 
him and spoke to him ; how many times ! How 
familiar the voice must have been to him ! 

As familiar as the voice of the Lord J esus to the 
disciple who often spoke in the heat of his spirit. 

She remembered a day — her second little one, 
golden-headed Grace, had been buried only a week 
and her heart was aching to be comforted — and in 
her desolation she went to a window and tapped 
upon it, rousing her husband who sat upon a ve- 
randa in his wheel-chair, with his head bent for- 


74 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


ward ; he lifted his head and turned towards her ; 
she beckoned once, twice; overcome with faint- 
ness she staggered against a chair ; she could not 
move herself with life enough to go out to him, 
and he could easily wheel himself towards her. 
He gave her a quick, hard look; the* grand- 
mother had been with him for an hour, and 
Grace had caught the sound of her own name 
several times ; after that look he had turned away 
again, and then his man had been summoned to 
push his chair across the lawn ; she thought he did 
not hear the sob and cry she sent after him as she 
sank upon the floor. At first she choked and 
moaned in the bitterness and heat of her spirit; 
she thought she had never wanted him so, and he 
had looked at her and gone away. 

After a long while — the house was still and no- 
body found her as she crouched upon a rug with 
her head dropped into her lap — cool, sweet, com- 
forted tears quenched the heat and sweetened the 
bitterness ; had her husband come to her and taken 
her into his arms and drawn her liead down to his 
breast and kissed her, she would have been satisfied 
with fullest satisfaction ; she would not have cried 
out unto the Lord. 

After that she was not afraid, as she had often 


A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


75 


told him, of loving him “too much;” she could 
be comforted without him. 

Had Ezekiel any times of preparation like this? 
If he had only given a bit of more personal and 
private autobiography, some human happening that 
might happen to any other to prove that he was 
like any other ! 

Searching for the inspiration of this, she studied 
through twenty-three chapters, and then she cried 
aloud, joyfully : “ Here it is ! Here it is ! ” 

Startled that it should be there, she read with 
awe and reverent delight : “ Son of man, behold, 
I take aw^ from thee the desire of thine eyes with 
a stroke — ” 

The desire of his eyes ! The thing he loved best 
to look upon as she had loved best to look into her 
husband’s face. 

With a stroke ! With no warning but this ; no 
preparation, but this sure, prophetic word. 

“ So I spake unto the people in the morning, and 
at even my wife died^’’ 

In the morning he was away from her ; in the 
evening she died. 

“And I did in the morning as I was commanded.” 

With his grief hidden, himself lost in the will of 
God, he did what God commanded. 


76 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Would He help her to help others; to give the 
comfort wherewith she had been comforted? 

Oh, the presumption of it ! 

She covered her face with shame ; no weaker 
hand, no weaker brain, no weaker heart had he 
among all his workers. 

But even as a mother encourages the little hands 
held out to “ help mamma,” so would he encourage 
her (put heart into her) and put some unobtru- 
sive, easy work into her hands ; something that the 
lovingest and weakest child may do, she thought, 
as her shamefacedness gave way to the confidence 
of the child. 

If she might only do it without one breath of 
care for herself. 

That afternoon Letta Beam brought the last 
night’s mail ; the envelope and penmanship was 
that she received every month from her husband’s 
lawyer : Mrs. Harold Maxim. 

“ In the middle of the month ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Holbrook, in surprise ; “ haven’t you had your 
remittance this month?” 

“Yes; this must be some other business. Mr. 
Kemp has written before to ask me some ques- 
tion.” 

“ Not bad news, I hope ! ” foreboded the little 
aunt, anxiously. 


A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 77 

Grace wondered what would be “ bad news ” to 
her now; Mary’s death, or Harold’s — she loved 
them both ; each had written once since their 
father’s death. 

With the foreboding in her face Mrs. Holbrook 
watched her as she read the brief communication ; 
Grace refolded it and slipped it into the envelope 
before she met the anxious eyes and spoke. 

“ It is my money ; my small annuity.” 

“Nothing has happened to Mrs. Hol- 

brook almost screamed. 

“ There is no money for something to happen 
to ; he left me the interest upon a certain invest- 
ment ; I suppose he was influenced to choose that 
investment ; that investment just now pays noth- 
ing. It has paid less and less for some months, 
but Mr. Kemp has advanced the money out of 
solicitude for me ; now he inquires what he shall 
do next?” 

“What shall he do?” asked Mrs. Holbrook, 
with her forehead full of wrinkles. 

“ Nothing. I shall return the sum he has ad- 
vanced ; he had no right to do that.” 

“ Oh, you poor child ! What will you have to 
bear next ? ” 

“ I thought I was rich an hour ago ; I wonder 


78 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


what I can do to support myself. I think I might 
be a nurse ; one of my husband’s physicians said I 
had a natural aptitude, and it has been developed.” 

“ Those children would never let you.” 

“ Those children have no voice in the matter.” 

“ But they are too proud.” 

“ So am I. f do not feel brave ; I am stunned. 
I was hoping to do something with not one breath 
of care for myself, and now I must work to earn 
my daily bread.” 

“You will not go away from me, Grace; surely, 
you will stay now. I am glad for my poor old 
sake that you have no money to go out into the 
world with. If this small farm were only mine ; 
but it has always belonged to your Uncle William’s 
brother, and his heirs must have it as soon as I die. 
But you must stay, and we can work together. 
I’ve heard of women raising bees — and chickens.” 

Bees and chickens ! Had her glorious work 
narrowed down to that? 

Her all was taken from her with a stroke ; Eze- 
kiel did as he was commanded the very next morn- 
ing; but was bees or chickens a command? 

Must she live only to keep herself alive ? 

“ There’s work enough in the village and the 
church if you’ve got to be enthusiastic, Grace.” 


A BIT OF AUTOBIOGBAPHT, 


79 


Grace smiled at the tone. Poor Auntie ! what 
a trial her enthusiasms were to her ! 

“ You are spoiling me still, Auntie.” 

“You are old enough now to have common 
sense; it is common sense to allow that lawyer 
to write to those children. You are sinfully 
proud, Grace Maxim.” 

“ Am I ? ” returned Grace, absent-mindedly. 

Late that night she wrote to Mr. Kemp, demand- 
ing that he should give her the amount of the sum 
for which she was indebted to his mistaken kind- 
ness, and asking as a favor to herself that the 
children of Judge Maxim should not be apprised 
of the loss of her annuity; their father’s money 
she gratefully accepted, their money would burn 
her fingers; she could support herself, but she 
could not take one dollar grudgingly thrown at 
her. 

In the early morning she gave the letter to the 
stage driver as he passed the house, and then, with 
a relieved mind, hastened back to the kitchen to 
have the breakfast ready when Auntie Holbrook 
made her appearance. 

She had begun to be Mrs. Holbrook’s “ hired 
girl,” but wfithout any hire save her board. 

As she ground the coffee she began to consider 


80 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


what the next thing must be — must it be nursing, 
or bees, or chickens ? 

Would he be grieved if he knew? 

Ought she to do the thing that would please him 
best ? 

But, up there in Heaven, with his clearer vision, 
he might see that bees and chickens were among 
the Lord’s own work. 

The trouble was that it was not among her own 
work; grinding coffee was, however, and as she 
turned the coffee mill the shadows fled from her 
eyes. 


V. 


A DECISION. 

% 

“It is years since I have written a word; my 
last journal was written with hurried gladness in 
those "tantalizing days while I was waiting for 
Judge Maxim to come and tell me something 
and ask me something. 

“ My wildest wish was not as wild as the wild 
truth.” 

The small volume was on the table, the light 
from the lamp fell over it ; Mrs. Holbrook had 
fallen asleep in her chair ; the contradiction of the 
katydids in the locusts was the only sound Grace 
heard as she lifted her head to listen and to think. 

Her journal had fallen in her way that day, and 
she brought it down stairs for company that even- 
ing while her aunt was asleep. 

She was very lonely, and Auntie Holbrook did 
not guess it. 

She dropped her eyes, the eyes with longing in 
them, and read in her own familiar hand : 

“I have been so above the common lot, so chas- 

6 ( 81 ) 


82 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


tened and visited, I needs must think that I was 
wicked. ” 

I know I am. 

It is an inexpressible comfort to me that Jesus 
was wearied with his journey. 

I am so wearied with the journey of my life. 

He has taken my baby, my darling, my blossom, 
my second one. 

Leo went away first, and now little golden hair 
has gone. 

Their father was jealous ; he said I loved them 
better than I loved him. 

Mary did not love Leo, but I think she loved 
Grace ; she loved her golden hair-, and once she 
kissed her. 

The grandmother and Aunt Horatia never spoke 
lovingly to them or about them ; grandmother said 
there was nothing of the Maxims about them — 
they had a common look. 

For a long while I could not forgive her. 

My husband says I shall be blind if I weep so ; 
but they loved me. 

I know I felt hard toward God the night Leo was 
dying. 

And Grace died because of a fall from Harold’s 
arms. My husband does not know that ; nobody 


A DECISION. 


83 


knows but Harold and the baby’s mother. Harold 
is very kind to me, but he is weak like- Mary, and 
under John’s influence. 

I do not think about anything nowadays ; I 
exist, that is all. 

Aunt Horatia Saji'S I make an idol of my hus- 
band, and that I shall be punished. 

God knows. If His hand touch me in punish- 
ment it will still be His hand and I shall love it. 
Better in punishment than not at all. 

I do not believe I grow at all. I read the news- 
papers, every column, page after page, morning and 
evening, aloud to my husband ; he forgets, and 
would never know if I read the same news every 
day for a week. 

But he likes the sound of my voice, and it 
makes no difference to me what I read. 

Has God forgiven me because so many times I 
have prayed to die ? 

A minister called one day, some one my husband 
knew in college ; I could not control my tears 
while he prayed with us, my husband bending for- 
ward in his chair and I kneeling at his side. 

It is so long since I heard a voice in prayer. 

After he left my husband said : “ Gracie, you 
shall read the Bible to me ; perhaps I can remem- 
ber a word now and then.” 


84 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


“ It comes natural to love God after you are a 
new creature,” the, minister said. 

I think lam a new creature ; my husband says 

I am. 

He said, too, that when we come to the end of 
ourselves we come to the beginning of God. 

“ Your wife looks worn,” he said to my husband. 

I am worn, I am bruised ; did flax ever have to 
be so bruised before ? 

“ The smoking flax will He not quench.” 

Surely, I did not originate those words ; where 
did they come from, what do they mean ? 

Mary’s life is so narrow ; she does not care par- 
ticularly for anything but reading novels, and 
sailing, and her father. She is afraid of John and 
her grandmother and her dreadful aunt. 

I should think she would feel watched ; I believe 
she would if she dared. She is never so happy as 
with her father and me. 

He calls us his two girls. She is too broken- 
hearted to be jealous. I love to leave them alone 
together ; I love to let her wait upon him ; I love 
to see her head on the arm of his chair. I should 
have been so glad to love my father so. 

My life seems very poor. I live for my husband ; 
is God pleased when a woman does only that ? 


A DECISION. 


85 


I envy mothers with many children, poor mothers 
even, who have to work hard to put bread into 
hungry little mouths. 

I envy all the workers whom God has chosen to 
work with ; He has chosen His workers and left 
me out. 

If I did not catch one of His precious words 
now and then I should starve to death; I live on 
His word. 

I should not be writing so long but my husband 
is asleep. My poor darling ! ” 

Tears fell upon the last page, but they were not 
uncomforted tears. She gave thanks for every 
one of her days. They were not because God 
had left her out ; they were because He had 
brought her in — to His love, His work. His life. 

“ Oh, you are there ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Holbrook, 
starting up ; “I must have been asleep. Why 
didn’t you speak to me ? I’ve been dreaming 
about you ; I wish I could move you, but you are 
such a rock of a thing I do not dare try ! ” 

The rock of a thing raised her eyes and smiled ; 
the smile was almost merry, but the rock was un- 
derneath, and the old lady gave a hopeless sigh as 
she hitched her chair nearer the light. 

“ Please do not try to influence me ; I shall 


86 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


never take money from John Maxim, or money 
that he would grudge his brother and sister giving 
to me. Harold’s letter was like himself — he is a 
dear boy.” 

Her voice trembled in spite of her determined 
self-control ; had he not asked her to accept an 
annuity from little Goldenhair’s brother ? 

Was it her abominable pride or her honorable 
self-respect ? 

“Anyway I am glad Mr. Kemp told them,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Holbrook, in mild triumph. 

“ Harold questioned him ; I might have known 
he would. But I will not do anything to make 
trouble between the brothers ; John resents any 
attention to me or protection of me as reproach to 
himself as head of the family. John loves money, 
and he hates me. I think he is glad his father’s 
children died — glad that they may not share the 
inheritance with him. I hate the love of money; 
it has caused all the bitterness in my life ; those 
two women had no other reason for hating me. I 
never took my position as head of my husband’s 
house ; to them I was only his nurse — his paid 
nurse. Mrs. Henleigh flung at me that any other 
nurse who had been salaried as I was would be sat- 
isfied with such an annuity.” 


A DECISION. 


87 


“What did you say?” cried the mild old lady, 
with blazing eyes. 

“ I told her that if she had failed to understand 
my life my words would be useless.” 

“ Did Mary hear it ? ” 

“ Yes ; I was sorry for Mary ; fear of them locks 
her lips. I would despise her if I did not so pity 
her.” 

“ They will not live forever.” 

“ Oh, Auntie ! don’t you be a murderer ! I think 
Harold will appreciate my reasons for not being 
willing to be under obligations to him ; I told him 
what a pretty home I have, and how comfortable, 
and he knows how often I was homesick for it and 
you. I cannot understand,” (speaking more to 
herself than to her listener,) “ why I have to be 
so hindered when I was ready for work. Taking 
care of myself seems so belittling.” 

“ Do you despise my way of life ? What has 
my ‘work ’ been? I am out of patience with you, 
Grace, when you talk so much about your ‘ work.’ 
How is that any different from doing what you 
have to do every day ? ” 

“Auntie,” (Gracie’s firm tone was exceedingly 
gentle,) “ some one else can wash your dishes, and 
cook, and work in your garden, and read to you as 


88 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


well as I, and perhaps no one else can do some 
other thing quite as well as I.” 

“You might do it for love of me,” said Auntie 
Holbrook, grieved and injured, forbearing to remind 
Grace that she had loved her in her forlorn child- 
hood when every one else cast her off. 

“ So I might, so I do ; and that other work I 
may do for love of One whom I love better.” 

The injured look in nowise relented ; who else 
talked so ? All that long strain must have un- 
strung her mind ; what else could she do ? Did 
she want to go to the heathen ? 

“ What do you want to do ? ” she inquired, 
ungraciously. 

“ I do not know — yet.” 

“ I thought joM didn’t ! And you’ll stay here 
until you find out.” 

“ 1 may have to go somewhere else to find out.” 

“ Grace, you are a fanatic ! ” cried the old lady, 
wholly out of patience. 

Grace laughed the merriest laugh Auntie Hol- 
brook had heard since the days of Grace’s girl- 
hood : “ Oh, Auntie Holbrook, such a quiet body 
as I am ! ” 

“As if taking care of one’s self wasn’t the 
Lord’s work, especially when He has laid it upon 


A DECISION. 


89 


you ! If you think it so useless to take care of 
yourself why don't you accept that money ? ” 

Grace pondered in silence. 

“ It’s your wicked pride, and you are giving it a 
virtuous name. You don’t mean to be a hypocrite, 
but you are a little bit of a one I ” 

“ A fanatic and a hypocrite I Oh, Auntie I ” 

But the laugh was not as merry this time. 

“ Paul worked with his own hands.” 

Mrs. Holbrook could not forbear pushing her 
advantage ; she pulled a piece of knitting out of 
her apron pocket and began to work with her own 
hands. 

“ But he was doing something else at the same 
time,” was Grace’s quick answer. 

“ Why can’t you ? There’s work in our church.” 

“ I do not feel called to it.” 

“ Feel called ! ” repeated Mrs. Holbrook, with a 
slight emphasis of contempt; “a Christian woman 
ought to ‘ feel called ’ to do whatever her hands 
find to do. For my part, sewing society every 
week, and prayer meeting when the Beams can 
take me, and things to do at home, use up all my 
missionary zeal.” 

‘‘ Auntie,” Grace dropped her hands in her lap 
and bent forward in her earnestness, “I am 


90 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


younger than you are ; I am not yet forty years 
old, and you are over seventy — there’s a great deal 
of something shut up in me ; I want to be out.^ I 
want to be doing ; I cannot settle down like you 
until I am as old as you are — and temperament has 
a great deal to do with it ; it may only half be zeal 
for real work, it may be my natural push ; but I 
think the Lord means to use natural push ; that is 
what He has made it for. And I know there is 
something in me to be used. I want people, I want 
girls and boys, and mothers — mothers who have 
lost little children, and wives wdio have husbands 
to live for ; I have something to say to them, and 
I must say it or choke.” 

She was choking now with tears ; her head 
dropped lower and lower, and self-contained Grace 
Maxim was sobbing as convulsively as in the im- 
pulsive days of her school-girl life. 

“ Oh, Grace ! There ! there ! there ! ” comforted 
the penitent old woman, patting the bent head; 
“ don’t cry so ! I didn’t mean anything even if I 
was so cross ! But I do hate to have you go.” 

Nothing in the fulness of her success would 
surprise Grace, for was not God doing it? 

In all her life she had never felt so emptied of 
herself; in herself she felt there was nothing of 


A BECISION, 


91 


herself she thought she was ready to go or stay, 
to do nothing or to do something, and now she was 
learning, with something of her old heat and bit- 
terness of spirit, that she was not ready, and so 
far from willing to give up her own intangible, sat- 
isfying something to do some common thing to 
earn her own bread and butter. 

She must have bread and butter, and shelter and 
clothing (her elegant wardrobe was not befitting 
her present lowliness), and she must get these 
things and pay money for them, and she must 
earn the tnoney with her own hand and eyes, 
and heart and brain — Judge Maxim’s wife ; Judge 
Maxim’s desolate widow; the step-mother of John 
Maxim, and Harold and Mary, of Mary, the owner 
of Riverside. 

What would Mrs. Russel, the housekeeper, 
think ? 

And June, Mary’s pretty, mulatto maid ? 

Would John be humiliated, and Harold grieved, 
and poor, timid, affectionate Mary troubled ? 

Would Mrs. Henleigh be triumphant, and Hora- 
tia, her shadow and echo, repeat the triumph ? 

Would anybody be too sorry? 

Was she not too sorry herself as her tears be- 


92 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


came slower and softer ; was she not a weak thing, 
weeping out of self pity ? 

With one of her quick, characteristic motions 
her head lifted itself : “ Auntie, I’m ashamed of 
myself! I’m a goose, and I shall stop it. One 
day will make way for the next, and I’ll just go 
right on.” 

“ You darling, proud, stubborn thing I ” was the 
tearful, half laughing response ; “ I’ll ask Mr. 
Merritt to make you a deaconess, and Julia will 
let you sew for Gladys.” 

“ The child has more dresses than she can wear 
now, and my talents are not at all in that line.” 

“Grace,” (in a deliberate, forcible tone,) “don’t 
you think there’s a spice of old Adam in you that 
delights in humiliating those folks ? If you go out 
in the world to support yourself, what will they 
say?” 

“ I shall not go into somebody’s kitchen ! ” 

“ You may as well.” 

“ Auntie, I’m very bad,” said Grace, contritely. 

Auntie’s eyes twinkled as she picked up a 
dropped stitch. 

“ I tliink the Lord will shake the pride out of 
you.” 

“ I hope He will — if it he pride.” 


A DECISION. 


98 


Fall and winter came and went in the Back- 
woods and brought no new happening to Grace, no 
new outside happening ; inside there was a new 
happening every day. 

She worked, and thought, and prayed. 

One day in early spring she came in from a 
tramp after trailing arbutus, with none of it in her 
hand, but something like it in her face. 

“ I do believe I have something to do. Auntie, 
and when I have learned how, my hands will be 
let go from the bread and butter hold of life that 
I may do it.” 

“ Suppose they are let go now and you will not 
take it. I shouldn’t think the Lord would like it.” 

With a flash of conviction came the answer : 
“ Neither should I.’ ’ 

Half an hour afterward she flew down to the 
kitchen with two letters in her hand : “ Auntie, 
dear, wise and worldly-wise old Auntie, I’ve writ- 
ten to Harold accepting his offer of flve hundred a 
year, and to Mary, saying that I have done it, and 
that she needn’t be troubled about me any longer.” 

“Now, Grace, I believe that you are a Christian.” 

Grace’s laugh was very light-hearted. 

“ How rich I feel ! You shall have a competent 
woman to do all your work, and I’ll go out in the 


94 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


world to seek somebody’s else fortune, for mine 
has come to me.” 

“ Where will you go ? ” 

“ I know — to Brooktown. I’ve always wanted 
to go there ; the Judge promised to take me. 
There’s a mill or two with working girls — there 
are people there ! I’ll find some mothers, and 
grandmothers, and babies.” 

“ But you’ll have to get ready.” 

“ Oh, yes ! That’s easily done. I do need 
dresses ; I’ll leave my trunks here until I trip off 
to Europe ! ^ow that I have my wings there’s no 
knowing where I shall fly to. But I must go to 
Brooktown first.” 

“ You don’t know any one there.” 

“ There are boarding houses ; it’s quite a resort 
for summer boarders. How idle I shall feel ! 
What shall I do Monday morning without a wash- 
tub ! ” 


f 


VI. 


geeatgeandmothee’s boaedee. 

The kitchen in which Emily was tripping about 
this summer afternoon was the very same Great- 
grandmother had played about over ninety years 
before ; the very same in which Greatgrandmother 
was dozing and dreaming this afternoon in her 
wooden, straight-backed chair near the smoldering 
log in the huge fire-place. 

Had Greatgrandmother had her will every mov- 
able and immovable thing in this kitchen would 
have remained unchanged these fifty years, but 
her strong will had been overborne by the rush 
and push of younger life, and there were a few 
modern conveniences in the small-windowed, low- 
beamed room beside Emily’s rustic rocker and sew- 
ing machine, but only a few, for the aged, stubborn 
will was still the law of her household ; she said, 
like Abraham, she commanded her household after 
her ; but it was the law of loving kindness in the 
household of reverent and loving obedience. 

Colored Matilda, who was born in the house and 

( 95 ) 


96 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


was a grandmother herself, was as afraid of Great- 
grandmother’s anger to-day as she had been thirty 
years ago, and her husband, when he desired a 
favor, begged Matilda to “ coax the old woman.” 
Emily was not afraid of her anger, for she knew 
she could pet it and kiss it away, and little Jessie, 
Matilda’s grandchild, did not know how to be 
afraid of anybody. 

The fire-place near which Greatgrandmother 
dozed this afternoon was as huge and wide as 
when she herself, a chubby child with astonished, 
round eyes, had sat spellbound, bending forward 
with her elbows in her lap, and her chin dropped 
into her palms, listening to hear her grandmother’s 
tales of Baron Steuben ; how he had warmed him- 
self at this very fire-place and eaten in this very 
room, and slept in that room across the second 
entry that time he was teaching the Yankee 
soldiers to fight in German fashion. 

The girl of nineteen, busy about the kitchen, 
often seated herself upon the wooden bench in the 
chimney corner and asked Greatgrandmother ques- 
tions, and listened as eagerly as the chubby child 
who had listened and wondered more than ninety 
years ago. 

The August afternoons and evenings were chilly 


GBEATGBANBMOTHEB^ S BOABBEB. 97 

enough this summer to make Greatgrandmother 
shiver unless the fire were kindled on the hearth ; 
Matilda said it was because she loved the blaze, 
and her old e5’es could see the fire when they could 
see nothing else. Always before the patch of sun- 
shine coming through the oaks quivered itself away 
on the bare floor, Matilda brought kindlings and 
made a blaze among the logs that her husband 
shouldered and brought in, once or twice a week, 
and Greatgrandmother smiled when she felt the 
heat, and bent forward and held both hands as 
near the blaze as she could. 

Baron Steuben had wound that tall clock before 
Greatgrandmother was born, and its heavy tick, 
tick, tick, sounded in her ears to-day ; the cherry 
corner cupboard that held her blue and white cups 
and saucers, and all her treasured crockery, was 
among her wedding presents more than fourscore 
years ago (for Greatgrandmother was married at 
fifteen). The tall-backed chairs had been pur- 
chased within her recollection, but the hammer 
hung up with a strong cord on a nail under the 
mantel had belonged to her father, and he had 
used it before she was born ; the arm-chair, kept 
near the corner cupboard, the Baron himself had 
rested in (Greatgrandmother would not sit in it 
7 


98 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


for fear of wearing it out) ; and he had seen the 
reflection of his strong, stern face (she always de- 
scribed it^as strong and stern) in the mirror with 
the narrow gilt frame that hung above his chair. 

Emily told the girls Greatgrandmother would 
not look in the glass for fear of breaking it, and 
there was a tradition in the family that if you 
looked in the glass upon a certain midnight you 
would see the reflection of his face instead of your 
own. 

But, she added with a mysterious look, she had 
never seen any one who had chanced upon that 
midnight; and Nette Ferris declared that she 
would come some time when Miss Betsey could 
spare her and stay all night, so that she might rise 
at the bewitched hour and get a glimpse of the old 
Baron ; overhearing which Greatgrandmother had 
rebuked her for levity. 

“ That Nette Ferris is always making fun, Emily 
Achsah ; I wish you wouldn’t go with her,” Great- 
grandmother had said, crossly. 

“ But she’s poor. Dearie, and you like me to be 
good to poor girls,” persuaded Emily. 

The door opposite the fire-place led into a room 
about the size of the kitchen ; this room was the 
winter dining-room when that invention of modern 


GREATGRANDMOTllEWS BOARDER, 99 

civilization — the cooking-i^tove — was moved into 
the kitchen from the shed, and the busiest work of 
the family performed there ; it was only in summer 
that Greatgrandmother had the fire-place to her- 
self, and Emily Achsah, or a neighbor, or Miss 
Betsey Gunn, or Matilda, or Joseph, or little Jessie, 
as it might chance to be ; it was always to herself 
and somebody, for Greatgrandmother insisted upon 
never being left to herself and the fire-place. 

One of the windows was at the right of the fire- 
place, and out of it you looked towards the arbor 
vitse hedge that separated the grassy stretch from 
the handsome grounds of the city merchant who 
brought his family to Brooktown every summer ; 
there were two windows opposite each other at the 
ends of the room — one gave the view of Great- 
grandmother’s wood-land and the other showed you 
the bit of the yard, a tall Oak, and crumbling stone 
wall. 

The stone wall was not the only crumbling and 
going to ruin thing about the old place, but Great- 
grandmother would have no changes made ; she 
would soon be away, she said, and then Dr. At- 
water and Emily Achsah might turn everything 
upside down, and turn her and the Baron out of 
everybody’s memory. 


100 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


Dr. Atwater was Emily’s guardian, and he had 
had her educated with every advantage he had 
given his own daughter. 

In this long, two-storied house doors opened un- 
expectedly everywhere ; there were nooks, and 
crannies, and corners, and caverns, up-stairs and 
down, as well as in the dusty, crowded garret, and 
closets, and halls, and wide rooms and narrow 
rooms ; there were two broad entrances upon the 
first floor, square halls furnished like sitting-rooms, 
and twelve rooms beside, which Greatgrandmother 
and Emily had all to themselves ; Matilda, her 
husband and small grand-daughter had for a sleep- 
ing-room a chamber over the summer kitchen ; the 
other rooms upon the second floor were seldom 
opened ; sometimes Emily coaxed Great grand- 
mother for permission to take the girls over the 
house, and even to explore the corners of the gar- 
ret ; since her fall two summers ago Greatgrand- 
mother had not been able to lift her feet up the 
stairs, wide and easy of ascent as they were ; but 
the first floor w^as her . kingdom, over which she 
journeyed as often as she could persuade Emily or 
Matilda to guide her steps, and give her the 
strength of an arm to lean upon. On the latest 
tour of inspection Joseph had been summoned to 


GBEATGEANDMOTHER^ S BOABDEB. 101 

walk upon the other side, for Greatgrandmother’s 
strength had failed within a month. On these 
occasions she would step inside the door, and with 
the dimmed vision that was daily becoming more 
dim she would seek to peer across through the 
light that an opened shutter let in to discover 
with her own adoring old eyes if each chair, and 
table, and picture were in its place, and to discover 
if any new thing had been smuggled in to disturb 
the sacred ness of the century through which she 
had lived. 

The old place belonged to her as rightfully as it 
had belonged to her grandfather, and she said her 
say and had her will about the thirteen rooms up- 
stairs as well as about the twelve under her more 
immediate supervision; with Joseph she weighed 
and measured the produce of the farm, and talked 
over each tillable and untillable acre ; with Dr. 
Atwater she discoursed of bank stock and bond 
and mortgage, for Greatgrandmother had inherited 
money as well as land, and some day when she was 
done with them they would both belong to her only 
great-granddaughter, named after herself : Emily 
Achsah Deane. Greatgrandmother’s only child to 
grow up was Emily’s grandfather, and his only son 
was Emily’s father ; his only daughter had died in 


102 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


childhood, and Emily was the only child of her 
father and mother who had lived into her teens ; 
Greatgrandmother and Emily were alone in the 
world together ; Emily was nineteen, and Great- 
grandmother on her next birthday would be 
ninety-nine. 

The tenants of these many rooms were five 
until a week ago, when for the first time in her 
life Greatgrandmother had taken a boarder. 

Emily told the boarder that she would never 
cease to be surprised at this until she had lived as 
many years as Greatgrandmother herself. 

In speaking to others Emily always said, 
“ Greatgrandmother,” as the old lady bade her, 
but speaking to herself she gave her the pet name 
she had framed in childhood when Greatgrand- 
mother was too many syllabled for her small lips: 
Dearie. 

How Greatgrandmother chanced to take a 
boarder was on this wise : A week ago on an after- 
noon like this, when the sun was low and the fire 
was snapping on the hearth, a strange lady stopped 
at the shed door, and as Matilda lifted herself from 
breaking the egg to clear Greatgrandmother’s 
coffee, (for she always would have coffee at night,) 
the lady with an excuse for her intrusion asked if 


GREATGEANBMOTHER^ S BOARDER. 103 

she might have a cup of water at the well; she 
had heard a friend say years ago that the water 
was very pure and sweet. 

Through the open doorway Greatgrandmother 
caught the tones of the voice, as sweet, and pure, 
and refreshing as the water, and called to Matilda : 
“ Tilda, bring that lady in to warm herself at my 
fire.” 

“Oh! Greatgrandmother, it’s August!” said 
Matilda, with a laugh ; “ but you see, ma’am,” ad- 
dressing the face that brightened with the invita- 
tion, “she thinks everybody shivers when she 
does.” 

The lady was tall, and moved with an easy, 
graceful step ; her dress was dark gray ; she had 
removed one gray glove, and Matilda’s eyes caught 
the sparkle upon lier finger; -she told Joseph after- 
ward that the sparkle in her face was prettier than 
the sparkle on her finger. 

“ I wish I could see your face,” said Great- 
grandmother, wistfully, after the few unconven- 
tional words of greeting ; “ I think it must be 
something I would be glad to see ; but my blind 
old eyes are getting blinder every day ; they are 
tired of seeing things most a hundred years.” 

“But you are not tired, are you? That’s the 


104 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


beauty of it; only the outside of us gets tired; 
the inside is as fresh and young as ever.” 

“ That’s what I say to Betsey Gunn ; but she 
says the inside of her is tired out. May I touch 
your face?” Greatgrandmother asked, with un- 
usual timidity; “I touch Emily Achsah’s face 
and Jessie’s.” 

Instantly the head was bent ; Greatgrandmother 
slowly lifted her hand, and with a satisfied smile 
touched hair, brow, lips and cheek — soft, smooth, 
plump, warm ; the touch gave a thrill to the chilly 
fingers. 

More than once had Grace been told that there 
was “ something magnetic ” about her. 

“ You are not as young as my Emily Achsah.” 

“ Oh ! no,” said Grace, with a laughing look at 
the girl at Greatgrandmother’s side ; “ I am not 
a greatgrandmother, but I’m somebody’s grand- 
mother.” 

Emily uttered an incredulous exclamation: “I 
thought grandmothers were old ! ” 

“ I was a grandmother when I was younger than 
I am now,” was Greatgrandmother’s quick re- 
sponse ; “ but I am an old woman now, a very, 
very old woman ; people say they never saw any- 
body so old ! Father Drake died last summer, but 


GBEATGEANBMOTHEW S BOARDER, 105 

he was only ninety-five and a half, and I shall be — 
how old, Emily -Achsah, on my next birthday?” 

“ Ninety-nine.” 

“ Dr. Atwater knows, and Matilda knows, and 
it’s in my oldest Bible ; you never saw such an old 
woman, did you, now?” 

“ Never,” said the lady, pressing the chilled fin- 
gers in her warm clasp ; “ but that’s only one 
reason that I am glad to see you ; a dear friend of 
mine saw you once, more than ten years ago, and 
told me about you ; you were old then.” 

“ Sometimes I think I was always old. I’ve been 
old so long ; my years have all been old years ; I 
never was giddy and flighty like Nette Ferris.” 

“ Now, Dearie ! ” interposed the girl at her side, 
tying her cap strings. 

“ You are not flighty ; I want you to come and 
see me again — often. I love to see folks ; I can 
talk if I can’t read any more, and I can hear as 
well as I ever could. Perhaps you’ve got some- 
thing new to tell me.” 

“ I hope I have,” said the lady, gravely. 

“ And I’ve got lots to tell you ! I’ll show you 
Baron Steuben’s room. You never saw Baron 
Steuben, I suppose.” 

Emily laughed, and then said gently : “ She 


106 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


always forgets something ; but she ^ remembers 
remarkably.” 

Greatgrandmother spoke sharply: “I remember 
what ^0 It forget, Emily Achsah ; you couldn’t tell 
what year Matilda and Joseph were married, and I 
could. But I’m getting blinder ; they can’t seem 
to make glasses to fit me any more. Emily Achsah 
has to read my word now ; I get a word out of the 
Bible every night, but sometimes it’s so hard that 
I can’t understand it at all, and Emily Achsah is 
too young to know; Dr. Atwater only comes home 
Saturday nights this summer, and he isn’t here to 
tell me, and the minister is too busy to call every 
afternoon. I wonder,” the wistful eyes looked 
into the face still close to her own, “ if you know 
hard things in the Bible. If you could tell me I’d 
let you come and stay all the time, as that prophet 
stayed with that woman, and had a bed, a stool, 
and a candlestick. I think you must know.” 

Grace hesitated ; the old face was so very wist- 
ful ! 

“ I hope I know something ; I do not know very 
much ; I do not learn easily — I have had to be 
taught — but I shall love to come to see you and 
have you talk to me.” 

“ I am left behind ; I shall soon be gathered to 


GREATGRANBMOTHEIV S BOARDER. 107 

my people. Emily Achsah doesn’t like to hear me 
say that, and I want to be ready ; I am not half 
ready yet, and I thought I had been getting ready 
all my life. I’ve liked newspapers and history 
books better than the Bible, but they don’t help 
me any now, and I tell Emily Achsah when she 
brings home books that she’d better be reading the 
best Book.” 

“ But, Greatgrandmother, people must read 
something outside the Bible,” persuaded Emily. 

“ What for ? ” demanded the sharp old voice. 

“ You did.” Emily remembered Mrs. Teachum, 
but would not “corner” Dearie before a stranger. 

“And I just said I was wrong, and I’ve re- 
pented.” 

“ I read a great deal outside the Bible,” said the 
sweet, unfamiliar voice, “ a great deal that helps 
me to understand and love the Bible ; and I love 
to come home to the Bible, as Emily loves to come 
home to you after an afternoon with the girls. 
God has put a great deal of truth in the world, 
and it isn’t all in the Bible, but it is all His truth, 
nevertheless.” 

“ That’s what I mean,” said Emily. 

“ That is twisting things around, but it is com- 


108 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


mon sense ; still I want you to tell me what’s in 
the Bible and not what is outside of it.” 

“ I hope I may do both ; I am something outside 
the Bible, and you want me to come.” 

No, you are not,” contradicted Greatgrand- 
mother, “ you are made of what's in the Bible, and 
so you can’t be outside of it. You may tell me 
things that the Bible makes.” 

“Well,” smiled Grace, “ that is what I will try 
to do. But I do not see why you trust me.” 

“ I do,” with a satisfied nod ; “ I think you are 
like Job ; he was ‘ a man that called upon God 
and He answered him ; ’ he said it himself ; Job 
was old, too. That’s why I like the Bible ; it’s so 
full of old folks! How soon can you come and 
stay?” 

Greatgrandmother caught her hand and held it, 
looking up eagerly into the face the firelight shone 
upon ; in a strong light she could distinguish faces. 

“ I see your eyes,” she cried, joyously. 

“ I will come to-morrow if you will take me as a 
boarder ; I am looking for a new boarding place ; 
no place could suit me like this.” 

Emily's lips unclosed in protest, but Great- 
grandmother was speaking : 

“ I never had a boarder, but I suppose you 


GBEATGEANBMOTHER S BOARBEB. 109 

wouldn’t come unless you could pay your board. 
But you sha’n’t pay much ; that will pay your 
board.” 

Grace smiled and looked at the protesting fac^ 
at Greatgrandmother’s side. 

“ It isn’t that I don’t love to have you come ; 
Dr. Atwater told me about you, and I’ve seen you 
in the street, but I don’t want you to pay money, 
that is too mercenary.” 

I could not come otherwise,” Grace replied ; 
“could you, in my place?” 

“ I wouldn’t like to,” said the girl, frankly ; “ I 
confess that.” 

“And she shall have the Baron’s room, that’s 
the sunniest,” said the old lady, promptly ; “ it 
isn't a bit too good for her ; that’s opened oftenest 
and is the dryest ; but you mus’n’t bring new 
things to clutter up and hang around — ” 

“ I’m a new thing myself,” said Grace ; “ I 
haven’t one old thing ; what will you do with 
me?” 

Greatgrandmother’s lips puckered into a smile ; 
“ I like new things like you. You are like Job, 
even if you are such a new thing.” 

“You may take me on trial ; send me away in a 
week if you do not like me.” 

“ But you must stay now and have some coffee. 


no 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Matilda knows how to make coffee, and bring all 
your things to-morrow.” 

“ I pay seven dollars a week at my present board- 
ing place — ” 

“Seven, that’s a good deal! You must be well 
off. You shall pay me three ; will that suit you? 
asked Greatgrandmother, as businesslike as Dr. 
Atwater himself; “our fare is plain, but it's good.” 

“Your coffee is,” said Grace; “the odor is de- 
lightful.” 

“ Will that suit you ? ” 

“ Perfectly, if it suit you. I can afford to pay 
more.” 

“And I can afford to take less,” said Great- 
grandmother, with pride and dignity ; “ I don’t 
know what Betsey Gunn will say.” 

“You don’t ever get discouraged ?” proceeded 
the old voice, with new anxiety. 

“ Not now,” said Grace, seriously. 

“ I don’t like discouraged folks ; Matilda gets 
discouraged and wears me out.” 

“ Dr. Johnson said that a habit of looking on the 
bright side of things was worth a thousand pounds 
a year ; I think I am worth that thousand.” 

“ Then you shall come for three, sha’n’t she, 
Emily Achsah ? We needn’t tell Betsey Gunn 
what she pays.” 


GREATGRANDMOTHERS S BOARDER, HI 

Grace laughed, very much amused ; she was sure 
that she could repay the proud old lady in some 
way, and what a delightful home it would be ! 

It would be something to sleep in the Baron’s 
room, for her husband had seen it and told her 
about it. She was glad Greatgrandmother had 
likened her to the prophet ; it would not be hard 
to imagine the Tishbite himself putting off his 
leathern girdle and laying himself down to sleep 
in that old-time room. 

Fashions had changed since the days of the 
table, and stool, and candlestick, but not the old- 
time fashion of hospitality, nor the older fashion 
still of walking with God and talking to Him. 

This afternoon, while Emily was moving about 
the kitchen setting the round table for three, and 
stopping once in a while to reply to one of Great- 
grandmother’s numerous questions, Grace Maxim 
was arranging her books in a hanging book shelf 
she had purchased at the bookstore in Brooktown. 

Her husband's portrait over the mantel, and the 
certainty that he had once stepped upon that bare 
floor, gave the room a feeling of homeness that 
was in every way comforting ; she would make 
the room like home, which was as near a home as 
any place could ever be again. 


VII. 


MRS. TEACHUM. 

Greatgrandmother had been a newspaper 
reader (newspaper devourer, Miss Betsey Gunn 
called her), since the first small printed sheet had 
fallen into her hand : “ Now I can know what folks 
are doing,” she exclaimed in triumph. In her 
young days she had prided herself upon her exact- 
ness and retentiveness ; in these old days she 
related in surprising minuteness of detail many 
events in foreign and domestic history of which 
Grace had only an inkling; she talked like a 
school-girl in her first history class of the death of 
William the Fourth, of Victoria’s marriage and 
coronation, and the Opium war, and was quite 
impatient with her boarder and rebuked Emily 
Achsah soundly for not instantly recalling the 
name of Jackson’s vice-president. 

Newspapers and odd volumes of history she had 
laid aside only when Dr. Atwater had told her at 
eighty-seven that she should keep her remaining 
ejesight for the study of the truest history ever 

written — the Life of Jesus Christ. 

( 112 ) 


MBS. TEACHUM. 


113 


“I know all that,” she answered, with more 
than her usual sharpness; “I want something new 
about old things and old folks.” 

‘‘ I found something new in that Life this morn- 
ing,” he returned, “ and I’ve been studying it for 
thirty years.” 

“Do you know all about the Thirty Years 
War?” she asked instantly. 

He did not reply, and she felt sorry and rebuked. 

After that she read the Bible a few moments 
every day; she clung to her newspapers until she 
could not distinguish one letter from another. It 
was only in extreme old age that she manifested any 
interest in the New Testament ; the “ old folks ” of 
the Old Testament had long been real to her. 

When Grace became Greatgrandmother s boarder 
Emily had been with her greatgrandmother the 
summer and winter of but one 3^ear; the girl’s life 
from her twelfth to her nineteenth year had been 
passed at boarding-school; the vacations of every 
year were spent with Greatgrandmother; orphaned 
before she could speak she had been left to the 
joint guardianship of her greatgrandmother and 
Dr. Atwater, a college friend of her father. 
Greatgrandmother’s one desire for her had been 
her “education.” 

8 


114 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Emily Achsah will soon be mistress here,” she 
repeated often to Matilda, “ and she must know all 
history.” 

She herself had visited the Young Ladies’ Semi- 
nary, fifty miles distant, and had arranged that 
Emily Achsah should know all the history the 
Principal knew how to teach. 

Emily Achsah had returned a “ sweet, good girl, 
a trifle idle and disposed to gad about the streets, 
and to choose the company of flighty girls,” 
Greatgrandmother assured Grace, and she was 
satisfied with her attainments until that unfor- 
tunate day when she discovered that she did not 
remember who was vice-president under Jackson’s 
administration. 

But she was a distinct, smooth reader, and when 
she read aloud Greatgrandmother’s delight in her 
returned, and she was glad of the six hundred dol- 
lars she had paid yearly to the Principal of the 
Young Ladies’ Seminary at Kingston, if it had 
brought only the satisfaction ,of reading aloud 
well. 

Among the discolored, leathern-bound books 
Emily had found when a child in a cupboard in an 
up-stairs room, was one that had moved Great- 
grandmother to be willing to send her to boarding- 


MRS. TEACHUM. 


115 


school ; it was a small, square volume, printed at 
the Stone House in Philadelphia, MDCCXCI. 

On the fragment of the first yellowed leaf was 
Emily’s own name : Emily Achsah Deane, but the 
writing was Greatgrandmother’s, and the date be- 
fore Emily’s mother was born : October 25, 1820. 

When the child brought it to her, her Great- 
grandmother looked at it with curiosity, but gave 
an exclamation of delight when she glanced at the 
title page. 

Her husband had given it to her upon one of 
their wedding anniversary days, and she had 
lamented it as borrowed and never returned. 
When Betsey Gunn was little she had a way of 
never returning borrowed books. 

The title page ran thus : 

THE GOVERNESS: 

OR Little 
Female Academy. 

Being 

The History of Mrs. Teachum 

and 

Her Nine Girls; 

With 

Their Nine Days Amusement. 

Calculated 

For the Entertainment and Instruction of Young 
Ladies in their Education. 


116 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Ejnily never heard the name Mrs. Teachum with- 
out thinking of it as it was emphasized on the title 
page, and as her greatgrandmother seemed to pro- 
nounce it : Mrs. Teachum. 

Emily thought she had been brought up on Mrs. 
Teachum. 

She believed that she had read the book aloud 
once every week since her return from school ; like 
a child Greatgrandmother loved the familiar best, 
and an old story retold was better than a new one. 

One day she told Mrs. Maxim that she thought 
she must be like Mrs. Teachum, and repeated the 
description of that dignitary almost word for 
word : 

“ ‘ Mrs. Teachum was about forty years old, tall 
and genteel in her person, though somewhat in- 
clined to fat. She had a lively and a commanding 
eye, insomuch that she naturally created an awe in 
all her little scholars, except when she conde- 
scended to smile and talk familiarly to them, and 
then she had something perfectly kind and tender 
in her manner. Her temper was so extremely 
calm and good that, though she never omitted 
reprehending, and that pretty severely, any girl 
who was guilty of the smallest fault proceeding 
from an evil disposition — ’ ” 


MRS. TJEACUUM. 


117 


Here Greatgrandmother had to be prompted ; 
she accepted the kindness ungraciously and pro- 
ceeded : “ ‘ yet for no cause whatever was she pro- 
voked to be in a passion. But she kept up such a 
dignity and authority by her steady behavior that 
the girls greatly feared to incur her displeasure by 
disobeying her commands, and were equally pleased 
with her approbation, when they had done any- 
thing worthy of her commendation.’ ” 

The names of the nine young ladies she remem- 
bered in the order in which they were given ; when 
she repeated them, as she did every day before 
Emily began to read to refresh her memory and 
particularly Emily’s, who was inclined to “forget 
names and things,” Emily could see them as they 
were printed with the long s and in two columns : 


“Miss Jenny Peace, 


Miss Sukey Jennett, 
Miss Dolly Friendly, 
Miss Lucy Sly, 

Miss Patty Lockit, 


Miss Nancy Spruce, 
Miss Betty Ford, 
Miss Henny Fret, 
Miss Polly Duckling. 


The eldest of these was but fourteen years old, 
and none of the rest had attained their twelfth 


year. 


VIII. 


BRUSHWOOD. 

“ I haven’t had my word to-night, Emily Ach- 
sah,” said Greatgrandmother, querulously. 

Emily dropped her book and looked up ; she had 
certainly forgotten Greatgrandmother for fifteen 
minutes; it was five o’clock when she brought 
her a glass of water and now it was quarter past 
five ; it would have seemed to her such a queer, 
wrong way to read the Bible had she not become 
accustomed to it ; still this queer way was some- 
thing quite new; Greatgrandmother had thought 
of it only this summer; before she had been satis- 
fied to let her find the place, each place being alike 
good and interesting. 

Matilda called Greatgrandmother’s way of read- 
ing the Bible one of her childish freaks. 

“ Bring the Book ! ” 

The tpne of the command reminded Emily of 
Dr. Atwater’s voice in Sunday-school yesterday 
when he read : 

“ Bring hither the ephod.” 

(IIB) 


BRUSHWOOD. 


119 


The Bible was heavy, but she would have no 
other ; she liked to feel the weight upon her 
knees ; placing it upon her knees her faithful little 
handmaiden stood and waited. 

The eyelid trembled, then closed over the dark- 
ened eyes;- the trustful hands were slowly and 
solemnly raised, and then laid upon the leathern 
binding. 

“•Wait, Dearie; I haven’t opened it yet,” cried 
the fresh young voice, so fresh, so young, in con- 
trast to the aged shrillness. 

“ I open ; you don’t ! ” 

The very dew of the morning Emily’s lips and 
cheeks seemed as they touched the parchment of 
Greatgrandmother’s forehead; the touch quieted 
her, for she spoke less nervously : “ Now it’s open 
and I’ll pray.” 

It startled her to have Greatgrandmother be- 
lieve that God was near enough to listen to her 
whisper and to move her finger. 

“ Lord, Thou art hearing me ; give me a word to 
feed my hungry soul,” whispered the tremulous 
lips, and then, in faith, feeling that His hand lifted 
her finger and guided it up the page almost to the 
top, she paused, feeling that He would have her 
go no further, and laid the tip of her finger down. 


120 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


Emily caught her breath, a little frightened, as 
she always did. 

“ That’s the word, Emily Achsah,” cried Great- 
grandmother in a tone of moved and awed delight; 
“read it out clear and strong.” 

Emily read clear and strong : “ The princes 
digged the well, the nobles of the people digged 
it, by the direction of the law-giver, with their 
staves — ” 

“ Is that it ? ” 

Greatgrandmother’s voice sounded heart-broken. 
Would the Lord answer her faith by speaking such 
hard words as these I They might be in any 
history. 

“You are not reading straight! ” she exclaimed, 
petulantly, lifting her hand to give Emily a push; 
“you haven’t found the place at all, and I can’t 
find it again. It can’t be that ! He wouldn't give 
me a stone when I asked for bread. I don’t be- 
lieve my finger touched that, because I’m too old 
to dig a well and our well is as good as that any 
day. Look again I Look straight and look 
sharp I ” 

Emily looked again, straight and sharp, but the 
same mysterious words were in the place Great- 
grandmother’s finger tip had touched ; disappointed 


BRUSHWOOD. 


121 


and vexed tears stood in her eyes ; her great- 
grandmother al\yays blamed her if the words she 
read did not suit her mood. 

Greatgrandmother’s sigh was very pitiful : 

“ It isn’t like Him to disappoint old folks so ; 
He didn’t disappoint Gideon so about the fleece. 
And the angel came again to Samson’s mother. 
I’ve read chapters in the Bible ever since I went 
to school and worked my sampler, and I never read 
them words before ; I don’t believe it’s my old 
Bible at all.” 

“ Oh, Dearie ! How can you talk so to me I 
You know I wouldn’t deceive you.” 

“ "rtie Lord wouldn’t either! He knows I was 
in earnest, and He’s in earnest when we are ; Dr. 
Atwater says so.” 

“Dr. Atwater doesn’t know you read the Bible 
this way ; it’s as bad as seeing the Baron’s face 
in the glass,” replied Emily, worked up to unusual 
indignation. 

“ Don’t you try to teach me, miss. The Baron 
looked in that glass before you was born, and I 
read the Bible before you were thought of. I 
know it isn’t the Lord’s fault or mine, so it must 
be yours. That time He fed the people there were 
women and children there, and I don’t believe He 


122 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


gave the old women a crust too hard for them — 
and they didn’t have dentist’s teeth like mine 
either ; I believe it was nice and fresh, and not a 
dry crust like this.” 

Emily was often at her wits’ end in arguing 
with Greatgrandmother ; she stood still with hot 
tears burning her eyes, not knowing what to say 
next. 

“ Let me find one for you. Dearie,” she coaxed ; 
“ I’ll look in the New Testament where it is easy.” 

“ The Old Testament is His Word as well as the 
New,” came instantly the angry reprimand ; that’s 
a new fangled idea somebody told you ; I’ve for- 
got lots of things, but I aint forgot that onfe part 
of the Bible is as true as another.” 

“ That’s true. Dearie,” consoled the patient, 
girlish voice, “but in the New Testament it’s 
easier, sometimes ; you always like it when you 
find verses in the New.” 

“ Yes, when I’m led there, but I aint led there 
this time.” 

“ You are always led there ! ” 

“ Now don’t you get spunky over the Bible, 
Emily Achsah,” cautioned Greatgrandmother, 
with virtuous sweetness. 


BBUSHWOOD. 


123 


“Let me read on,” suggested Emily, choking 
back a laugh ; “ perhaps it’s here, after all.” 

“ It isn’t on ! It’s here ! Didn’t you say my 
finger touched that verse?” 

“Yes; but God wrote the others just as well, 
and He means them to go together, just as you 
mean your stories to go together.” 

Greatgrandmother meditated ; that did sound 
sensible. 

“ But I ashed Him to show me ! If you go on 
it will be saying to Him that I don’t believe His 
answer; I know it’s hidden away there under 
something,” scratching the paper with the nail of 
her eager forefinger; “don’t you see anything 
else ? You may read it again ! Oh, that I had 
my own old eyes ! ”' 

Bending again over the page, stifling a sigh of 
impatience, and grieved for her vexation and dis- 
appointment, Emily read again the tantalizing 
words : 

“ The princes digged the well ; the nobles of the 
people digged it — ” 

“ I hope they got water,” interrupted Great- 
grandmother; “if they didn’t they must have felt 
the way I do.” 

“ That shows you must read backward and for- 


124 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 

ward to understand all about it,” cried Emily, 
eagerly. 

“ iVb, I told you ! ” 

“ Let me read the one you had last night when 
Mrs. Maxim was here ; you liked that.” 

“ I don’t want that over again.” 

“It’s meant for us to have it over again, and all 
the time.” 

“ Then the Lord would have given it to me over 
again,” cried Greatgrandmother with triumphant 
convincingness. 

“ He has given it ! But I can’t make you under- 
stand,” exclaimed Emily, in sheer despair. 

“ I can’t make you understand ; don’t try to 
teach your greatgrandmother.” 

The laugh this time would not be choked back. 

“ Go away and call Mrs. Maxim,” commanded 
Greatgrandmother, more angry than she had ever 
been in her life with Emily Achsah, “ and don’t 
come into my presence until you repent.” 

Greatgrandmother clung to the old leaves with 
a reverence akin to idolatry, but if the woman who 
touched the hem of His garment had worshiped 
that garment as Greatgrandmother worshiped her 
old Bible, she would not have been healed. 


BRUSHWOOD. 


125 


“ Faith got it for me,” she said once gleefully to 
Dr. Atwater. 

“Don’t make an idol of your faith,” was his 
stern reply. 

After that she would not confide to him her 
“ experiences.” 

As Emily turned away with tears of real sorrow 
swimming in her eyes, Mrs. Maxim entered through 
the shed. 

“Oh! that’s you,” cried Greatgrandmother, de- 
lightedly. 

“ I was detained ; I knew you were expecting 
me for your Bible time, but Mrs. Atwater has been 
urging me to take her Bible class, and telling me 
about her girls ; I wont do so again,” she added, 
penitently. 

“ I hope you wont ! Emily Achsah has been 
worrying me and not helping me at all. You can 
get something out of it besides a well and digging 
with staves.” 

Emily stepped to an open window and stood 
looking out until the tears were dried, and then 
she came back to Greatgrandmother’s side. 

“I’m sorry. Dearie.” 

“ You ought to be,” was the short acknowledg- 
ment. 


126 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Mrs. Maxim always came in from the town with 
packages ; she piled them on a table and drew off 
her gloves ; Greatgrandmother waited impatiently. 

“ Now read it.” 

Grace sat down close to Greatgrandmother’s lap 
and read aloud the words the loyal forefinger indi- 
cated ; she was still true to her faith. 

“ You know how I get my word ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Grace, looking troubled, “ in a way 
of your own.” 

“ It’s the Lord’s way, too.” 

But there was a new tone of doubt in the eager 
assertion ; Grace was not ready to answer the 
questioning tone, she was not sure herself; the 
simplicity of Greatgrandmother’s faith, the staunch 
finger keeping the place — were they not from the 
Giver of faith ? 

He was in that room as real a presence as her- 
self ; if He were not, she could not be ; it was be- 
cause He was there that she was there ; without 
His breath breathed into her she could not draw 
another breath ; she had no wish to draw another 
breath. And was not His Word as real, as true 
as Himself? 

“ Do you see it ? ” 

Emily pushed a chair to Greatgrandmother’s 


BRUSHWOOD, 


127 


other side, and sat listening with a weary look in 
her eyes. 

Was it very wicked to be sometimes tired of her 
greatgrandmother 

“ Yes, Mrs. Deane, I see it ; wait a minute ; I 
must-read it backward and forward and see what 
it means.” 

“H’m,” grunted Greatgrandmother, as a light 
she could not see shot through Emily’s eyes. 

(‘^See” meant also “I must pray.”) 

A light tap on the window-sill moved Emily to 
turn ; a dark glowing face, with a gipsy beauty, 
looked in with beckoning eyes ; Emily slipped 
away, assured that Greatgrandmother would not 
miss her; the two who felt themselves in the 
Lord’s presence were left alone together with Him. 

“ Does it mean something ? ” asked the old lady, 
in a quieter tone. 

“Oh, yes! a great deal. I remember it. In 
Eastern countries, you know, water is not so com- 
mon as with us ; it is a luxury as well as a neces- 
sity ; traveling caravans seek eagerly for it, and re- 
joice with great thanksgiving when they find it. It 
means life as well as refreshment to them. Think 
of the old people, the mothers and dear old grand- 
mothers who were thirsty, as well as the little chil- 


128 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


dren. The Lord who was leading them every step 
of their way, said to Moses, their Leader and In- 
tercessor : ‘ Gather the people together and I will 
give them water.’ ” 

“ That isn’t my verse,” was the hasty interrup- 
tion. 

“ It is a part of it; don’t you want it all?” 

“Yes,” after a moment of rebellious hesitation. 

“ This precious water was God’s gift to every 
single one of them. Every drop of water is His 
gift. Dr. Atwater knows a man who has spent 
nearly three thousand dollars on liis place to get 
water, and hasn’t got it yet; he will rejoice when 
he gets it. When these people found it, in their 
gladness they sang a song ; the mothers and chil- 
dren sang, I hope — every one who was thirsty, and 
glad, and thankful. The song is your verse : 

“ ‘ Spring up, O well; sing ye unto it, 

The princes digged the well, 

The nobles of the people digged it, 

By the direction of the law-giver with their staves.’ 

“What a- chorus that was for all the thankful lips 
to sing. Now we will see what there is in it for us 
all these long centuries afterward ! ” 

Greatgrandmother bent forward like a child 
listening to a story, with her folded hands resting 
on the open Book. 


BEUSHWOOB. 


129 


“ The princes digged it with their staves, not 
with spades to dig deep in the earth, but with 
staves or rods that belonged to them as the princes 
of the twelve tribe^; and as that was easy work 
it must have been a well already digged and full 
of water, hidden away by thick brushwood or sand, 
and God who had hidden it away had kept it hid- 
den for them, and gave it to them in their thirsty 
time. All they had to do was to brush the wood 
or push the sand away, and there was the water ! 

“ How cool it was to their hot lips ! 

“ Mothers and fathers dipped it up for their 
little children, and perhaps the children carried it 
to the grandfathers and grandmothers. 

“ God gave it to them, and yet they had to dig 
for it. 

“ He gives us the truth in this Book, and yet we 
have to do something to get it; we have to dig for 
it, sometimes. He does not mean for his good 
things to come to us too easy. 

“We ask and He gives, and then, often and 
often, we have to work beside. 

“ I had to read before and after to find out about 
this ; and about the hidden wells and getting them 
clear with staves I had to read in some other book 
that gives a true history of Bible times. God 
9 


130 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


gives you His Word as lovingly, as freely, in as 
wise a w’^ay as He gave this water to the people. 
One of His ways of giving is giving us something 
to do. All you did was to pray and move your 
finger ; you cannot see to do anything else, but I 
can, and He requires something else of me. 

“ I am not sure that this is the way He likes 
best for you to read His truth ; I am not sure that 
it is not His way, for He is very pitiful to the aged, 
and infirm, and blind. 

“ He cares when we are thirsty, not only when 
we are thirsty for His Word and Himself, but 
thirsty for His water to quench our natural thirst; 
He cares for our bodies as well as for our souls, 
which is a comfort and delight to me every day 
that I am conscious of my body and its many, 
many needs and ailings. 

“He does not forget where His water is hidden, 
even if He has all the stars in the heavens to keep 
in their places and on their shining way ; and He 
doesn’t forget the very moment that we are thirsti- 
est. He does not let us get overthirsty and die ; 
His promises come true in His dear, good time.” 

Greatgrandmother did not see the head dropped 
for one moment and the tears brushed away. 

“ You are one of the princes to brush the brush- 


BBUSHWOOB. 


131 


wood away for me,’' cried Greatgrandmother’s 
voice with childlike eagerness ; “ I’ve been tired 
and discouraged to-day ; I’m not as strong as I 
used to be, and I get cross. I’m sorry I was so 
cross to Emily Achsah. I know she has gone ; I 
felt her slip away.” The eager voice changed to a 
childish pitifulness, the old lips trembled, the old 
eyes filled. 

Wearied with the strain of the last half hour 
Greatgrandmother suddenly dropped asleep, like 
a tired child in the midst of its playthings ; Emily 
entered with a lightened tread ; Grace gathered up 
her parcels and went through the rooms and passed 
to her own distant room. 

Her husband’s face was her greeting as she 
opened her door, his face as it was that day he 
told her aomething and asked her something ; she 
said to Auntie Holbrook the day she left her that 
she would give up her five hundred a year and 
take in washing to earn her bread and butter 
before she would give up that portrait. 

“ He does not need to speak,” she said. 

Mary promised her the day she took it away that 
she would give Riverside for it ; no other was so 
lifelike, no other had the same associations. 


132 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“I wouldn’t take Riverside for it,” Grace an« 
swered, proudly ; “ it was painted for me.” 

Harold had an excellent copy ; Mary scorned a 
copy ; Harold said she cared most to get the pic- 
ture away from her father’s wife, for how could 
she love it as Grace did? Had she nursed him 
night and day until he had become part of herself, 
her very flesh and blood? Harold understood 
some things like a woman. 

Auntie Holbrook smiled all to herself when 
Grace made her self-confident assertion concern- 
ing her husband’s portrait and her annuity : “ It 
comforts the child to think so,” she thought in her 
motherly heart, “ and after all, what would we poor 
creatures be but for loving ? I don’t need any big 
oil portrait of my husband.” 

Grace would not have loved her aunt so well 
had the plain-spoken old lady spoken her thought 
aloud ; she was sure that both Mary and herself 
loved the painting of that dear, familiar head and 
face better than all the elegant homes the world 
contained. 

One night she awoke sobbing from a dream in 
which it had been taken from her, and she had 
found herself before the mantel in the Baron’s 
room and looked up and missed it. 


BBUSHWOOD. 


133 


Emily and Nette Ferris, standing outside the 
window in the deep grass, had listened to every 
word Mrs. Maxim had spoken about the well ; 
Emily told Nette that it was like the stories 
Matilda used to tell her of somebody’s magic 
touch opening impossible doors and the light 
streaming in on hidden treasures. 

“But this is simple, plain truth, and really hap- 
pened, and may happen over again,” Nette said, 
who always went deeper into things than Emily. 

“I wonder how they knew the well was just 
there,” mused Emily. 

“ I wish I knew where my well is ! ” said 
Nette ; “ one thing I know, it isn’t in Miss 
Betsey’s kitchen.” 

“ How do you know if it is covered up?” asked 
Emily. 

“ Perhaps she will tell me how to find it. I’m 
afraid of her ; she isn’t like — everybody.” 

“Yes, she is,” said Emily; “she even cares to 
put pretty trimming on her white aprons ; she is 
like us girls, only a little more grown up.” 

Grace had described Emily to Mrs. Holbrook as 
“ the girl with the smile ; ” no one gave her a sec- 
ond glance until she smiled ; a clear complexion, 
blue-gray eyes shadowed with straight, black 


134 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


brows ; black, soft hair brushed back from a high 
forehead ; a good mouth, with handsome, even 
teeth — prettiness like this you might see in many 
girls every day, but the sudden smile was some- 
thing Grace had not seen the like of in all her 
study of faces ; at one instant she was grave or 
indifferent, with nothing noticeable in feature or 
expression ; the next that smile broke over her 
face, and you could not forget her — at least, Grace 
Maxim could not. 

She loved Emily from the first moment she saw 
her, and that was in the street talking to Ben 
Atwater, her guardian’s only son. 

As John Burroughs says of the birds, you need 
not go to them, they come to you ; since Grace had 
been in Brooktown girls had come to her. 

The kitchen maid at her boarding-place had been 
sent away in disgrace; when the rough-mannered, 
uncouth thing stood a moment at the gate, Grace 
went out and took her hand, and spoke a few 
words to her. 

“ How could you ? ” asked a lady working in 
silks on the piazza, with a shiver and gesture of 
disgust. 

“ I don’t knowhow I couldn’t,” answered Grace. 

Grace would never forget the tears in the inex- 


BRUSHWOOD. 


135 


pressive hard eyes, nor' the strong grip of the 
coarse fingers. 

“ I grow more and more sorry for — people ! ” 
Grace remarked, after a moment. 

The lady laughed and matched the bit of silk in 
her fingers from a tangle in her lap ; “ It takes all 
my time to be sorry for myself.” 

Then, as Grace passed her, she drew her face 
down and kissed her ; Janet Ray was one of the 
girls Grace loved. 

Grace described her, also, to Mrs. Holbrook ; 
was not one of her missions in Brooktown to find 
a daughter to take her place to Auntie Holbrook? 

Her own story she had told to no one but Mrs. 
Holbrook; she only gave herself out of its sorrow- 
ing and comforted fulness ; she had been alone 
with God, and learned something that was good 
for every girl and woman, something that she 
longed to make known to every girl and woman. 

But how would she ever learn to tell them ? 

A few moments after she left her, as Grace stood 
before her husband’s portrait, going to it directly 
as she would have gone to him. Greatgrandmother 
awoke. 

“Emily Achsah, have I worked to-day?” she 


136 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


asked, awaking like a child with freshness in voice 
and manner. 

“Yes, Dearie,” said Emily, relieved to be so 
soon forgiven. 

Dearie was reconciled to her; there was no need 
of words. 

“ Did I shell the beans ? ” 

“Yes, every single one ; nobody helped at all.” 

“ Did I husk the corn and pull the silk off 

“Yes.” 

With childish anxiety came the next quick ques- 
tion : 

“ Did I pull it all off?” 

Strongly tempted to answer “Yes,” Emily hesi- 
tated ; had she not pulled off bits of the silk that 
Dearie’s poor old eyes and fingers could not find? 

“ Was it nice and clean, Emily Achsah?” 

“Very nice, Greatgrandmother, dear.” 

“ Then if I’ve done my work get Mrs. Teachiim 
and read to me: ‘ A Dialogue between Miss Jenny 
Peace and Miss Sukey Jennett.’ ” 

Emily’s voice sounded comically modern and 
young when she read : 

“‘Now, pray. Miss Sukey, tell me what did you 
get by your contention and quarrel about that 
foolish apple ? ’ ” 


BEUSIIWOOD. 


137 


Greatgrandmother’s face was round and full; 
there was nothing dried up or shriveled about 
her; her figure Avas plump and her hands flesh- 
tinted and solid ; she was as proud to tell you that 
she weighed one hundred and sixty pounds as that 
she would be ninety-nine years old on her next 
birthday; she loved to add that when Abraham 
was ninety and nine the Lord appeared to him, 
and some time she thought He would appear and 
speak to her. 

No matter how old people were in the Bible, 
they all died at last; she liked that chapter where 
it gave their ages and then said they died; if it 
hadn’t been for that she might have thought that 
the Lord had forgotten to let her die, and she did 
not see how she could get into Heaven without 
dying, for if she had lived longer than people lived 
nowadays she did not believe the Lord meant to 
make an Enoch or an Elijah out of her. 

That evening, sitting alone in the Baron’s room 
with her shutters closed and her duplex burner 
lighting the room, Grace jotted down all the 
thoughts she could think in regard to the hidden 
well ; the talk to Greatgrandmother had helped 
her ; perhaps it might help some one else who was 
hungry for some of God’s good, hidden things. 


IX. 


FIVE LOAVES. 

“Do you see that hammer that Joseph tied a 
string in and hung up because I told him how old 
it was, Mrs. Grace?” 

Greatgrandmother said that “ Maxim ” was a 
hard word to pronounce, and she did not like the 
sound of it, either ; so, if it would not be disre- 
spectful, she would call her “ Mrs. Grace ” instead. 

“ Yes ; I took it down and held it in my hands 
to-day.” 

“ Did you ever hold a hundred years old hammer 
in your hands before?” asked Greatgrandmother, 
with a solemnity befitting the age of the hammer. 

“ No,” said Grace, very seriously. 

“ My father pounded with that hammer ; they 
made hammers strong in those days ; it has lasted. 
No wonder city folks like to come here and look at 
and talk about my old things ; I am an old thing, 
too, I suspect they say ; I don’t look very young. 
I expect I was as spry as Emily Achsah once. 

( 138 ) 


FIVE LOAVES, 


139 


When did you say that Bible was made that I get 
my word out of ? ” 

“ More than one hundred years ago ; it was 
printed in 1731.” 

“ What year is it now ? I always forget ; I do 
forget once in a great while,” she apologized. 

“ It is 1881 now.” 

“That’s a good many; that’s more than I am. 
Then how old is my Bible ? Is it older than me?” 

“ One hundred and fifty years old.” 

A smile puckered her lips : “ To get up to that 
I shall have to live a good while longer than I want 
to. I never thought I should be glad to die, but I 
shall,” with very sweet seriousness. 

“ There is nothing left for me now but to eat 
and sleep, and nobody I used to know seventy-five 
years ago ever comes to see me. Betsey Gunn is 
a girl compared to me. Before I fell down I could 
walk like anybody, and used to go out to the road 
and up the lane, and once in awhile to church. 
But it’s time for my word; I know the time; I 
get hungry for it, and I have thought all about the 
last one ; I want a new one ; Emily Achsah hasn’t 
come to find it for me ; she don’t find it for me, 
though. I find it for my own self,” she added, 
complacently. 


140 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“She likes to be with the girls ; she doesn’t have 
to spin as I used to ; she’s frisky, like all young 
things. I used to like to go out when my work 
was done, but she likes to go before her work is 
done,” her voice growing sharp. 

“ Just think of it — my husband, Joshua Deane, 
lived in this house with me seventy years ! Wasn’t 
that a long time to be married and live together ? 
Folks don’t do it nowadays ; it doesn’t seem to be 
the fashion.” 

“ It is a very sweet fashion,” said Grace. 

“ I’d like Emily Acbsah to have a good husband 
before I go and leave her ; I’d like to leave her all 
settled in this old house ; I’d like to get a husband 
for her as Abraham got a wife for Isaac, but I 
don’t know how, do you ? ” 

“ No,” smiled Grace ; “ that doesn’t seem to be 
the fashion, either.” 

“ I wish it was ; I don’t quite remember how he 
did.” 

“ Suppose you leave it in the Lord’s wise keep- 
ing.” 

“ Oil ! I do;” then she added, characteristically: 
“ I’ve got to.” 

“It’s good for us that we’ve ‘got’ to,” said 
Grace. 


FIVE LOAVES. 


141 


“ Dr. Atwater and the Lord together will see to 
it, I guess,” Greatgrandmother observed, content- 
edly ; “ I’m glad He lets us have Dr. Atwater.” 

Grace smiled, thinking that perhaps Ben Atwater 
would “ see to it ” also. 

“Would you object to getting the Bible and 
helping me find my word?” Greatgrandmother 
asked timidly. 

“ Why, no ; why should I ? ” Grace asked, sur- 
prised. 

“You don’t seem to think my way is the best 
way, and Emily Achsah scolds me for doing it.” 

“ She doesn’t scold you.” 

“ She cross about it, then ; I feel scolded.” 

Not feeling assured that she was exactly right in 
thus humoring the old lady’s whim, Grace brought 
the Bible and laid it upon her lap ; but she was so 
old and blind ; would not the Lord be as gentle 
with her as with a child ? 

“ It’s wonderful what hard ones He gives me ; 
but you will get something out of the hardest one ; 
I used to have to give up and do the best I could 
before you came.” 

“ Oh ! Grandmother, how could you when it is 
so full of help ? ” 


142 


FliOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Because it wasn’t in my word,” said Great- 
grandmother, stubbornly. 

“ But it is in His Word; does it say anywhere 
in the whole Bible that there is but one verse for 
you?” 

“ I can’t put my finger on more than one.” 

“ You do not have to put your finger on any.” 

“Yes, I do,” she muttered, “ it’s my way and I 
like it.” 

“ I know a better way.” 

“ That’s your way.” 

“ I do not believe Jesus read the Bible this way; 
He opened an Old Testament once and found a 
text, but He did not shut His eyes — ” 

“ The Lord shut my eyes,” was the retort, as 
quick as a flash. 

Grace did not laugh as Emily did, but she 
smiled ; she would have to begin again. 

“ I ask Him to teach me what to find ; I do not 
do it blindly. I’m not superstitious,” she ex- 
claimed, angrily ; “ but when He doesn’t answer 
me I can’t understand.” 

“You should understand that you must read it 
in some other way, then ; let me begin one of the 
Gospels ; don’t you want to know what John wrote 
about the Lord ? ” persuaded Grace. 


FIVE LOAVES. 


143 


“ John loved Him so, and was with Him so much, 
and knew: so much about Him.” 

“ John doesn’t know anything about me,” cried 
Greatgrandmother with real vexation. 

It was well that Greatgrandmother could not 
see the merry eyes ; what should she urge next ? 

“ There are so many places full of sweetest com- 
fort, like ‘ The Lord is my refuge and my strength 
and ‘ I love the Lord because He has heard my 
voice.’ Do let me read some of my favorite 
Psalms to you.” 

“ I want what I like, not what you like ; I want 
something as easy as can be.” 

“ There were little children when He fed all 
those hungry people, and when He gave them 
water ; if you have become a little child He will 
feed you like a little child.” • 

Greatgrandmother rubbed her hand upon the 
leathern binding. 

“ I’m afraid I do act childish a little sometimes ; 
I’ve seen old folks that was childish ; my mother 
' was, and my father lost his mind before he died. 
The Bible is different to a child ; a child can grow 
up and do all the right things, but I am grown up 
and can’t do anything any more. I’d rather undo. 


144 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


only I can’t. The Lord Himself can’t undo^ can 
He?” 

“ He can forgive, and that is the sweetest kind 
of undoing ; that is the kind I love best ; I would 
rather He would forgive me than cause that the 
wicked words I have spoken should be unspoken — 
for my sake,” she added to herself ; “ for the sake 
of others, oh! how I would rather they should 
be made unspoken ; ” and then she said aloud : 
“but He can heal as well as forgive. Forgive- 
ness is all the undoing the greatest sinner needs.” 

“ I don’t seem to think I’m the greatest sinner; 
I’ve forgotten the wicked things I’ve done ; I have 
to ask forgiveness for everything altogether.” 

“ For the sin and not the sins,” said Grace ; 
“think of the Lamb of God which taketh away the 
sin of the world and all your sin.” 

“ I don’t like to think He is sorry about my life; 
I don’t mind confessing to you that I’ve been a 
vain and worldly woman ; I don’t like to tell Emily 
Achsah ; I want her to think well of her old Dearie 
when she’s gone. I can’t begin again like a little 
child, for my day is over.” 

“ No, Grandmother,” Grace laid her hand upon 
the hand that was still smoothing the worn leather, 
“ your day is not over ; your real day is just be- 


FIVE LOAVES. 


145 


ginning ; you are early in the morning, the bright, 
heavenly morning ; you will soon be a little child 
in God’s kingdom in heaven, and everything you 
learn about Him now you will remember and be so 
glad about when you see Him — soon.” 

“ By and by ” had come to her lips, but she 
changed it to the more blessed, nearer time : 
“ Soon.” 

“No matter if you do forget all about your life, 
He is all that is worth remembering, and you will 
learn more and more about Him all the time.” 

“ I don’t know much now, that’s a fact,” Great- 
grandmother exclaimed, with unwonted emphasis. 

“And you are not taking the wisest way to 
learn,” said Grace, very gently. “ He sees you 
now, your face, your hands ; he sees your blinded 
eyes ; He sees you more clearly than I can see you, 
near as I am ; and He wants you to see Him, and. 
has written His Bible that you may see Him.” 

“ Then He sees my finger, and knows where I 
put it.” 

That was unanswerable ; He did see her finger 
and did know where she put it. 

Grace was glad that He was more patient with 
Greatgrandmother than she was ; she was pro- 
10 


146 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


yoked enough with her obstinancy to walk away 
and not come back again to-night. 

Opening the Bible, Greatgrandmother lifted her 
hand and bowed her head in prayer ; Grace was 
penitent in an instant; “Lord, give me some- 
thing,” she heard her whisper. 

Emily came to the shed door and beckoned ; 
Grace went to her. 

“ Nette Ferris wanted to hear you talk about 
Dearie’s ‘ word ’ again, and I let her come. She 
will not come in until you say so.” 

At any other time the slightest rustle would 
have aroused Greatgrandmother’s curiosity; she 
was absorbed in her murmured prayer, and heard 
not a sound. 

“ Dearie likes girls,” said Emily, drawing Grace 
into the shed ; “ all the mill girls come to see the 
house and hear her talk ; and the summer board- 
ers, too.” 

Nette- Ferris was in Grace’s Sunday class ; she 
had come into it because Grace taught it ; she was 
“companion” to Miss Betsey Gunn; the two lived 
in a cottage a mile outside the town. 

The companion was not required to be on duty 
between three and five in the afternoon, when Miss 
Betsey was taking her nap ; she said she could sleep 


FIVE LOAVES. 


147 


better with no one but herself and the cat in the 
house ; Nette couldn't be still five minutes ; even 
when she was sitting still and sewing she would 
break out into singing at the top of her voice. 

Grace liked Nette Ferris ; she was as natural as 
the morning-glories that climbed up the shed. She 
was very tall, head and shoulders above Emily, with 
a stoop she had acquired by seeking to conceal her 
height ; deep dimples dented her crimson cheeks 
when she spoke or smiled ; dark, sweet, bright 
eyes looked straight into yours ; a mass of heavy 
black hair that she had learned to manage prettily 
crowned her head ; her dress, a cheap, pink mus- 
lin, was carelessly made and did not fit well ; her 
large, well-formed hands were bare (she would not 
tell the girls the number of her gloves and shoes); 
her coarse straw hat was pushed back from her 
face ; her smile when Grace spoke to her was very 
winning. 

“ That girl reminds me of a fine colt,” Dr. At- 
water had remarked to Grace ; “ she will pay for 
training ; nobody has ever taken her in hand.” 

Greatgrandmother’s prayer was ended before 
Grace and the girls entered her presence ; she was 
bending over with the tip of her finger held firmly 


X48 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


on the place ; it was near the bottom of the page 
this time. 

I’ve got it ! ” she cried in the gleeful tone of a 
child who has captured a butterfly ; “ I hope it 
isn’t hard, this time, Mrs. Grace, for I’m tired 
to-day.” 

Dear old Greatgrandmother ! For the first time 
Grace went to her and kissed her. 

“What has she got?” questioned Nette, in a 
whisper. 

“A Bible verse,” replied Emily, in the same 
tone. 

Peering sharply in the direction of the whisper- 
ing voices, Greatgrandmother asked who had come. 

“Only Nette, Dearie: she has come to hear 
about your ‘ word,’ ” answered Emily, soothingly. 

“ My ‘ word ’ isn’t for everybody.” 

The girls exchanged glances ; Nette turned to 
go away, but Grace detained her. 

“ Grandmother, your word is God’s word, and 
that is for every one of us ; may we not share it 
with you ? ” asked Grace. 

The mumbled words were not sufficiently dis- 
tinct to be a warm invitation to remain, but Grace 
urgently pressed Nette into a chair. 

“ She may stay if she wont giggle.” 


FIVE LOAVES. 


149 


“ She wont,” promised Emily. • 

“ Mrs. Maxim, I don’t know what my brushwood 
is,” began Nette, in the tone of beginning a long 
enjoyable talk. 

“ I do not know what it is,” said Grace, “ but I 
know how to get it out of the way.” 

Nettie looked expectant. 

“ Do every right thing you know ! ” 

Nette’s lips formed a whistling motion ; had she 
been alone the whistle would have whistled itself; 
doing right things was just what she didn’t do. 

“Mrs. Grace, come and read! Just the words 
under my finger,” cried Greatgrandmother, im- 
patiently. 

Grace read : “ And Jesus took the loaves.” 

The girls looked at each other; Greatgrand- 
mother groaned : “ It’s just my luck ! Hard 
again ! ” 

“ Don’t, please,” reproved Grace, gently, while 
Nette flushed uncomfortably, suppressing a laugh; 
“ luck and Bible words do not fit well together.” 

“Well, it’s my — fate, then,” substituted the dis- 
appointed voice, sullenly ; “ I don’t often get one 
that I can understand myself.” 

Grace seated herself at the old lady’s side and 


150 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


looked at the words ; she had loved these words a 
long time. 

“ I think it’s superstitious to get Bible verses by 
chance,” declared Nette, in a loud whisper. 

“ ’Tisn’t chance ; it’s praying,” defended Great- • 
grandmother; “you needn’t stay if you’ve got to 
interrupt.” 

Again Grace was perplexed. 

“ You know. Miss Ferris, that the Lord took the 
blind man by the hand and led him — he could not 
see the way himself, and so Greatgrandmother 
cannot see to find a word for herself ; she asks 
him to take her by the hand and lead her.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Nette. 

“ But, Mrs. Maxim, the blind man had to be 
led ; he didn’t know where he was to go, and 
Dearie knows about the Bible ; I don’t think it’s 
just the same.” 

“Yes, ’tis,” asserted Greatgrandmother, “’tis 
just so ! ” 

Grace was more than ever troubled and con- 
fused ; what could she say to her girls if they 
should ask her if Greatgrandmother’s way were 
right ? 

“ Sometimes we are permitted to stay wrong a 
little while ; we are slow to learn, and we have to 


FIVE LOAVES. 


151 


learn groping in dark ways we make for ourselves; 
but he is leading us in the dark as he led the 
blind man ; he did not open his eyes first.” 

Nette gave her a quick look with such a sympa- 
thetic comprehension that Grace wondered what 
the girl was living through. 

“ I would not advise you, girls, to do this way ; 
but I do ask you always to open the Bible with a 
prayer for light ; we may know where to read, but 
we do not know how to read. We are not to make 
ourselves judges ; he knows how to teach Great- 
grandmother.” 

Greatgrandmother smiled in fullest content, and 
pressed the time-worn leaves with her fingers as 
lovingly as she caressed Emily’s cheek. 

“ I beg your pardon, Grandmother,” said Nettie, 
contritely. 

“ Beg it again for saying ‘ Grandmother.’ Fin 
nobody’s grandmother ; anybody can be a grand- 
mother.” 

Nette laughed her loud, uncultivated laugh ; 
“Oh, dear! if you should ever be Greatgreat- 
grandmother, how hard it would be on us I ” 

But the laugh was merry and kindly, and Great- 
grandmother appreciated the humor of the remark, 
and liked the girl the better for it ; for the sake of 


152 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


it she was willing to share her “ word ” with her. 

Grace was pondering the words : And Jesus 
took the loaves. 

To her they were a message from the Lord. 

That day with tears she had cried out to him : 
“ But I have nothing to give thee, Lord. All my 
life has given me nothing.” 

Greatgrandmother rubbed the page with impa- 
tient fingers ; at last Grace spoke : “ There was a 
lad that day with five barley loaves ; there were a 
great many hungry people — men, and women, and 
children ; they had come to this green, pleasant 
place to see Jesus and be taught. After he had 
talked to them he thought about how hungry they 
were, and far from a place to buy bread. So he 
commanded them all to sit down on the green 
grass, and his. disciples carried bread and fish 
around among them. 

“ All the bread he had was five barley loaves. 

“ The loaves were small in those days, and made 
not of wheat, as we make our fresh, sweet, light 
bread, but of barley, which was cheaper and 
coarser, and less nourishing; the bread was the 
bread of the poor people. 

“ Probably it was the lad’s mother who made the 
bread — some poor, hard-working peasant woman. 


FIVE LOAVES, 


153 


who ground the barley as the women grind it now: 
two together sitting at a mill ; early in the morn- 
ing the day’s work begins by making bread. Per- 
haps she was tired and hadn’t slept well, and 
grumbled and fretted, as she had to rise early to 
sit down at her mill. Perhaps she worried, as we 
do, that she had so little to do with — only her mill, 
and her oven, and her barley bread. Perhaps she 
had heard about those women who ministered unto 
the wonderful Prophet, following him about, and 
grieved because she could do nothing for him. 
Perhaps the preacher at her synagogue did not 
understand the Scriptures, and could not tell her 
what the God of Israel would have poor, hard- 
working women do for him, and perhaps he had 
not told her one thing about the coming of the 
Messiah, not one thing that would help her to 
understand that he was this same Jesus. 

“ There may have been some tears that very 
morning as she molded her small loaves, tears as 
natural, as discouraged, as yours and mine. 

“When the Lord took these loaves into his 
hands, it was not the first time that he had seen 
them. He saw the barley meal and saw her sit- 
ting at the mill ; he saw them coming into shape 
as she took them into her hands ; they were in her 


154 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


hands before he took them into his hands. If she 
cried out to Hannah’s God, and Deborah’s God, 
he heard that, too. 

“ Perhaps she went with the lad. I hope she 
did ; I hope she hurried through her work in time 
to join the great company ; and don’t you hope she 
stood somewhere near him, and saw Ids face, and 
heard every word he spoke ? 

“ He spoke to the women and children, as well 
as to the men. 

“ It did not matter, then, if on other days she 
had to stay fast at home and work hard. 

“ He was as near her in her own home, but she 
did not know it ; it was not the first time he had 
looked into her face. 

“ How fast her heart must have beaten when 
Jesus took those five loaves into his hands I Her 
little loaves, and only barley loaves, and only five. 

“ Is our work as insignificant and as common as 
that? Only something that some one else can do 
as well ? 

“Not even the finest of the wheat, but only 
common, coarse barley.” 

Greatgrandmother’s voice interrupted, eagerly: 
“ I shell beans ; and one day I wiped all the 
dishes.” 


FIVE LOAVES, 


155 


Nette spoke with her usual frank impulsiveness: 
“ Mrs. Maxim, I hate housework ! ” 

“Do you make the bread?” inquired Grace, 
smiling at the words she had spoken so many 
times to Auntie Holbrook in her girlish da3’^s. 

“Yes; and I hate that worse than anything. I 
want to go to school ; I want to draw and paint ! 
I never can do anything I want to do ! ” 

“ Then you and I have our discouraged times. I 
haven’t done at all what I hoped to do when I left 
home ; I haven’t done what I left home to do. 
What shall we do with our barley loaves ?” 

Nette understood, but the words were too hard 
to speak. 

Her loaves were not worth his taking. 

How could Mrs. Maxim’s doings be like barley 
loaves ? She was rich, and elegant, and cultivated, 
(all that Nette sighed to be,) and she was only 
hired help to Miss Betsey Gunn, who did not be- 
lieve in girls pushing themselves out of their “sta- 
tion,” and who had not twenty-five books and not 
five pictures in her whole house I 

“ He could have fed the people without those 
barley loaves ; he could have held up his empty 
hands to Heaven and given thanks, and out of 
nothing made more than enough for them to eat ; 


156 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


but how lovely for the breadmaker and for us that 
he chose to use her barley loaves ! ” 

“ What did he do it for, then? ” asked Nette. 

“ Because he wanted to,” said Grace, “ and he 
always wants to do the thing that is wisest, hap- 
piest for us, and most glorious for God.” 

“ Is happiest for us best for us ?” asked Nette. 

“ I used the word with that signification ; if we 
love his will it is our happiness as well as our best 
good.” 

“ Yes,” Nette assented, doubtfully. 

“ He uses our small service because he loves to; 
because it is so good for us. He thinks his work 
would not be perfect without our working with 
him. Those five barley loaves were the best 
bread those people could be fed with.” 

“ That is for you and the girls,” said Great- 
grandmother, “ my work is all done.” 

“ No, indeed, it is not,” said Grace with glad- 
ness, “you will grow up in heaven just as these 
girls will grow up on earth ; they will put their 
loaves into his hands on earth, and you will put 
your loaves into his in heaven. Who can tell 
how much he will make of them ? 

“You will be busier than you ever were on 
earth : your hands will not keep still then, and 


FIVE LOAVES. 


157 


your feet have to be lifted over any rough place, 
and you can see every step of your way. He has 
need of us here, and he will have the same need 
of us there. He had need of the sun in the sky 
that da}^ and he had need of those five barley 
loaves. He had need of that very breadmaker. 
And she needed to make that very bread. 

“ No one but ourselves can make our own barley 
bread. When he gave thanks who can tell for 
how many things he thanked his Father ? 

“ Does he not thank his Father that we may 
share his work with him? Is he not glad that 
we may help in making his Father’s will done on 
earth as it is done in heaven? 

“ Oh ! how glad he is, for our sakes, of every- 
thing we put into his hands ! ” 

Greatgrandmother spoke in the tone of a child 
conning a lesson : “ First he took the loaves, and 
then he gave thanks.” 

“And then he distributed to his disciples,” 
Grace went on. “ Those five loaves were made 
into bread enough for more than five thousand peo- 
ple. Do we want to feed five thousand ? All we 
have to do is to make five loaves. But is that 


aU?” 


158 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ No,” saigi Greatgrandmother, “ we have to 
put them in his hands ! ” 

Nette thought of the two handsome loaves she 
took from the oven that morning ; when she would 
cut them to-night for supper how differently she 
would think about them ! 

“ I do not believe that breadmaker wished she 
had made six loaves; I think she was perfectly 
satisfied. He gave her barley and she made barlej'* 
bread.” 

Grace’s own heart was too satisfied to need an- 
other word ; last night’s pillow had been wet with 
the grief of the long disappointment of her life ; 
now she was satisfied ; she would give him all her 
past ; he could do something with it and out of it 
yet ; even if it were her last day on earth he could 
still do something with it. 

She had never been so comforted in her life. 

“ I hope that woman was as happy over her 
loaves as I am,” she said. 

As little feet pattered over the boards of the 
shed, Greatgrandmother called ; “ Come here, 

Jess!” 

A figure in a long blue gingham apron darted in 
and stood at Greatgrandmother’s side ; the round 
head, as round as a marble, was covered with innu- 


FIVE LOAVES. 


159 


merable tight braids of curliest wool; the small, 
black eyes glittered like black beads ; tiny white 
teeth shone through the parted lips. 

Emily said that Jess was Greatgrandmother’s 
doll. 

“ Stand still, Jess, and say it after me.” 

Jess tried to stand still, but the small, bare, black 
feet would squirm, and the fat little fingers catch 
at the untied cap strings. 

“And Jesus took the loaves,” quavered the old 
voice. 

The sweet voice of the child repeated the words. 

In Nette’s vivid imagination she could see the 
Lord standing with the loaves in his hands ; with 
her loaves, was it, in his hands ? 

Grace was glad to be alone ; she did not heed 
the supper bell, and Jess had to be sent to call 
her. 


X. 


SOMETHING NEW. 

In Grace’s room was Greatgrandmother’s piano ; 
its six thin legs supported its small body ; it was 
manufactured in New York city by Thomas Pond. 
Greatgrandmother remembered that the first piano 
known in England was made by an English monk 
at Rome, and was in seventeen hundred and fifty 
something. 

As Grace touched the yellow keys one day she 
was glad that this piano had not been purchased 
for herself, for then, like Greatgrandmother and 
the piano, her work would be done, and now her 
satisfying work was scarcely begun I 

All her past had been simply preparation she 
had told herself ; but like some other things she 
told herself it might be true and it might be false ; 
one of her delights in these days was to find her- 
self in the wrong, for that proved that she had 
learned something. 

On a table in one corner of the room was a tin)'’ 

( 160 ) 


SOMETHING NEW. 


161 


hand stove, for cooking in sick-rooms — siaiply an 
iron box to hold the fire, covered by a grate. 

Greatgrandmother had given her gracious per- 
mission to use with great carefulness everything 
the room contained; she had arranged books on 
the shelves of the closets at each end of the 
fire-place, and opened the drawers of the cherry 
dressing-table to put away her more feminine be- 
longings; on the round mahogany lamp-stand she 
placed her rosewood writing-desk ; on a gold plate 
were inscribed her initials and the date of her 
birthday. 

Pretty things that she had loved in her rooms at 
Riverside were scattered about everywhere ; the 
Turkish rugs were Harold’s gift, the clock her 
husband had bought for her in Switzerland. 

The Baron’s high-posted bedstead stood in a cor- 
ner near the open fire-place ; in the fire-place stood 
tall iron fire-dogs; back against the chimney’s 
black throat Grace had piled branches of cedar 
and arbor vitae ; in winter she hoped for huge logs 
and a blaze like the one that curled in and out 
among the kitchen logs — that would be her inspi- 
ration; then she would begin to do something 
new. 

An arm-chair, with a tall wooden back and a rush 

11 


162 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


bottom, she had pushed to one of the high-silled 
windows ; the small, square mahogany table, with 
its claw feet conveniently in front of it, she had 
piled with books and writing materials ; foolscap 
with an ominous literary look, old blank books 
that were only partly blank, and lead pencils, 
sharpened and unsharpened, with a box of steel 
pens and a business-like bottle of ink. 

Upon the walls were several small paintings in 
oil, a number of exquisite engravings and photo- 
graphs ; over the mantel the portrait of her hus- 
band. It was hardly a portrait to her; it was 
himself. In a closet on the other side of the fire- 
place was a cedar chest; among other treasures it 
contained were a pair of linen sheets woven in 
1800; the pillow cases were the handiwork of 
Greatgrandmother’s maiden fingers ; they were 
laid away for Emily Achsah’s wedding day ; laid 
away for Emily Achsah’s wedding day were also 
the frayed satin slippers Greatgrandmother had 
stood up to be married in, and a white lace veil 
certainly a century old. 

At ninety-nine Greatgrandmother had two events 
still to look forward to — the day of Emily Ach- 
sah’s marriage and the day of her own death. 

“ If I wasn’t so tired I’d like to live on with 


SOMETHING NEW. 


163 


Emily Achsah till she is ninety-nine,’’ she said one 
day this summer to Dr. Atwater. 

‘‘You will ‘live on’ with her longer than that, 
my dear old friend,” Dr. Atwater replied, his ready 
tears starting. 

In opening one of the small drawers of the 
dressing-table Grace discovered under a pile of old 
letters a gold piece, which, when she had burnished 
it, proved to be an eagle bearing the date 1801 ; 
the figures were nearly as perfect as when stamped. 

Greatgrandmother weighted it upon her fingers, 
and then called Emily Achsah to lock it away and 
save it for a time of need. 

Grace said she would like to give it to some one 
who was born in that year; Greatgrandmother’s 
first impulse was to save; Grace Maxim’s first 
impulse was to give. 

One afternoon, after diving into piled-up depths 
in one corner of the attic, Grace found something 
that had a wonderful interest for her — a flax brake 
with its immense wooden hammer; when Great- 
grandmother learned about it she sent Joseph with 
her to a small room in the second story to show her 
a wheel for spinning flax, and the hatchel, with its 
strong iron teeth, for combing flax. 

“Well, what do you think of the wooden ham- 


164 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


mer and the iron teeth?” inquired Greatgrand- 
mother, delighted with Grace’s interest in her 
treasures. 

“ I think the flax had to go through something 
before it got hammered and combed into linen.” 

“ Before it was woven and whitened ; but you 
see linen pays.” 

“ I wish I could see some flax.” 

“Didn’t you ever? Well, I never I you are 
ignorant. I can tell you that it don’t look much 
like linen ; it’s brown stuff enough.” 

“ As brown stuff as I am ? ” 

Brown stuff still, despite the wooden hammer 
and iron teeth of her prosperous, adverse married 
life ; despite the sunshine of her restful two years 
in “ The Backwoods ; ” despite the quiet of to-day 
when her only sorrows were her loneliness and 
disappointment at not finding her “ work.” 

That day, after she had lifted the hammer and 
run the tips of her fingers along the edge of the 
iron teeth ; after she had been cross and discour- 
aged all alone by herself, she went out on an 
errand ; it was only a little thing (the misery of it 
was that her errands were only little things), to 
buy gingham to make aprons for Auntie Holbrook, 
with the capacious pockets that she liked, and to 


SOMETHING NEW, 


165 


mail a letter to Harold to congratulate him upon 
liis marriage. Such a small errand! Other women 
had hours of shopping, friends to call upon, beside 
so much to do at home ; and she had nothing to 
do at home, and no home to do nothing in ! 

That one room was her home, her world ; and 
there was Riverside with its lawn stretching down 
to the river’s edge, its gardens and conservatory, 
its homelike rooms, above all her rooms, where her 
children were born and died, her rooms where she 
watched beside her husband all those dreary, de- 
lightful years for which she would give ten years 
of her lifetime to have one brought back again ; 
there was Riverside with Mary — if it had been 
only with Mary, but Mary’s keepers were there, 
her grandmother and aunt ; even if Mary were 
there alone would she write and ask to be taken 
back ? 

Strange faces at the windows, on the piazzas; 
strange voices talking and laughing ; but was the 
village in the backwoods any more like home ! 

Oh ! for a place, not like home, but home. 

At that moment Maxwell Truman, the clerk in 
the bookstore, passed her with a lifting of the hat 
and a bright look of recognition ; a moment later 


166 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


a hand at her side was outstretched to meet her 
own — the hand of a friend in most friendly greeting. 

“ Mrs. Maxim ! I hurried after you ; I must turn 
down the next corner ; I am on the way to the 
train ; I want you 1:0 do something for me and fifty 
thousand other people.” 

“ I am quite ready to do something for you — 
and other people.” 

“ I chanced to listen awhile Sunday afternoon 
while you were talking to your fifteen girls, and I 
also chanced to see a letter you wrote my Elsie ; 
if you can talk like that and write like that you 
can do better ; and I want you to do better for 
fifty thousand Sunday-school teachers. You write 
it, and I’ll see that they get it, every one of them. 
I want it for my first number of the new year.” 

Grace certainly looked dazed ; they were plain 
English words ; did she understand plain, English 
words ? 

“You know I’m an editor, don’t you? What 
are you so bewildered about? Don’t you write?” 

She emphasized every word in her deliberate 
reply : “ I never wrote anything for anybody in 
my life.” 

“ It’s time you did, then,” he said briskly. 
“ Anthony Trollope’s mother began when she was 


SOMETHING NEW. 


167 


about fifty. You are not quite fifty. You have 
the secret ; tell it to us ; excuse me ; good- 
morning.” 

“ But, Doctor,” catching liis coat-tail as he was 
hurrying off, “when do you want it? How 
long must it be? In what style? Upon what 
subject ? ” 

“ In ten days,” he answered, turning back, 
laughing. “ Fifteen hundred words ; your own 
style. Let common sense and spirituality choose 
your subject. Good-by.” 

She walked on in a maze ; had she found her 
work? Might she do it? Could she do it? Might 
her barley loaves feed five thousand ? Ten, fifteen ; 
why, he said fifty thousand ! 

In his hand ! She would not dare do it, she 
would not care to do it, if she might not put it 
into his hand. 

Perhaps Greatgrandmother’s “ word” would give 
her something to write about, but had it not given 
her something? Could she tell them anything 
more encouraging than about the five loaves ? 

And then in deep humility she cried out: “ But 
I do not deserve that thou should’st take my bar- 
ley loaves into thine hand.” 

All that evening, and all the next morning, she 


168 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


sat in her rush-bottomed chair bending over her 
writing table, jotting down a thought and half a 
thought, finishing a sentence and then running 
her pencil through it with a sigh of dissatisfaction, 
finishing a page and then tearing it into small 
pieces ; at last, in deeper humility, she laid her 
tired head upon an interlined and disfigured page, 
moaning aloud: “I cannot make even my poor 
barley loaves without thee.” 

For that day the marred and tear-blotted manu- 
script was hidden away under a late magazine ; she 
thought God never worked with a weaker thing 
than she was. 

She simply could not do it. She had been weep- 
ing so long that, when, not obeying the bell, Jess 
was sent to call her to supper, she had to send 
word that she had headache and must be excused. 
In five minutes Emily tapped at the door with a 
cup of strong, fragrant coffee. 

“ Grandmother sent it with her love, and said it 
would do you good. Oh ! Mrs. Maxim,” as Grace 
took the cup from her hand, “ have you had bad 
news ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! dear ; only that I am bad, and wicked, 
and proud, and hateful, and discouraged.” 

“ I’m so sorry.” 


SOMETHING NEW. 


169 


“ I’m glad ; it will get something out of me.” 

Emily laughed at the energy of the tone, and 
reported to Greatgrandmother that Mrs. Maxim 
was “ only blue.” 

That evening she lighted her lamp and sat down 
again to write ; she was not only like the woman 
making barley loaves, but she was like the disciples 
feeding the people. Had he beckoned to her to 
come to him and take something from his hands 
to feed the women (young girls among them, too), 
who sat on the green grass waiting to be fed ? 

The disciples took whatever he gave them ; even 
Peter did not say, “ Not so. Lord, it is only barley 
bread ; ” was she grieved and disappointed that he 
w'as giving her only common food; was she too 
proud to take something so coarse ; had she not 
secretly rebelled because he had not put into her 
hand the finest of the wheat ? 

Had she not torn her paper up because it was 
not finished and fine writing, because it was not 
original, but commonplace like her every day 
thinking ? 

She was . too proud to do no better than she 
could ! 

But if barley bread were the best that was in 


170 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


her to give, the best God had yet given her to give, 
was she too proud to take it ? 

And then in deepest humility she cried, with the 
marred, discarded pages spread before her : “ Make 
me ready to give the best in me ; if barley bread 
be the best, I am gladly satisfied — if thou art 
satisfied.” 

And then, she did not go to God, but being 
always with him, she sat at his feet and thought, 
and wrote, and studied. 

During the next five days she revised her “ Bar- 
ley Loaves ” five times ; the last time there was 
little of the original left ; she sent her fifteen hun- 
dred words (they counted up fifteen hundred and 
forty-seven) to the editor, saying that she would 
be disappointed but not hurt if he did not use it — 
the study had done her good, anyway. 

The next day came his reply: “Just what I 
wanted; I want four more, and a series of papers 
to girls for one of my monthlies ; twelve will do. 
Inclosed find check for five dollars ; the girls’ 
papers will be less, not more than four dollars ; I 
can’t afford any more, but they will be worth more ; 
I am glad you do not write for money ; you will 
not get it from me.” 


SOMETHING NEW, 


171 


She had something better than money from him. 
He had told her what to do. 

“ Mrs. Maxim, you look as if you were never 
blue in your life,” exclaimed Emily, meeting her 
in the yard an hour after she had read her letter. 

“ I feel as if I never should be again.” 

“ I’m glad you were,” said Emily, seriously ; “ I 
was afraid you were too good; I told Nette and 
Elsie ; I knew you wouldn’t mind, and Nette said 
she would care a great deal more^now for what 
you said about things.” 


XI. 


THE EPHOD. 

One afternoon, on returning from a call upon 
one of her girls who had a cough and was “ keep- 
ing still for a few days,” Grace passed through the 
shed to take a peep at Greatgrandmother, and to 
see if she needed her, as she often did upon coming 
in ; the plump figure was sitting in her chair near 
the open window ; her restless fingers were picking 
to pieces a lapful of wild flowers that Jess had 
brought to her; her sigh burst into a groan as 
Grace’s step touched the kitchen floor. 

“ All alone, Greatgrandmother, with the sun- 
shine streaming in on you and your flowers ! I 
know you love the sunshine.” 

“ It doesn’t talk to me,” was the discontented 
answer. “ I’ve been here alone I don’t know how 
long ; Emily Achsah had to go, and she likes to 
meet some girl and stay and talk ; she thinks I’m 
asleep, but I can’t sleep all the time.” 

“ But you have had some callers ! ” 

“ Only two — Joe Hatfield, who used to live with 
( 172 ) 


THE EPHOD. 


173 


US when my Joshua did the farming, and old Miss 
Gunn, who talks by the yard and never stops for 
me to answer ; I know a great deal more about old 
times and old things than she does ; she’s only 
seventy-five ! Emily Achsah says she never goes 
off like other guns ; she was here two mortal hours 
and wouldn’t let me answer back.” 

“ But she told you something interesting ? ” 
“Yes, once in a while,” relented Greatgrand- 
mother, “ but I wanted to tell her something inter- 
esting. I wanted her to see the Baron’s room ! ” 

“ Perhaps she has seen it before.” 

“ Not many times ! And it’s worth seeing more 
than once ; he didn’t stay all night at her house. 
And when I told her about my word, and how you 
talk about it, she said I was superstitious like a 
heathen African, and it was making the Bible a 
fetich, or something. What is a fetich? Some- 
thing the heathen worship, aint it?” she asked, 
with tremulous eagerness and anxiety. “ I told 
her I hadn’t turned heathen in my old age. She 
said it looked like it, and that you was my heathen 
priest, and I needed a missionary to come to me.” 

Grace’s light laugh brought a smile to the 
troubled old lips ; perhaps she wasn’t so wicked, 
after all ! 


174 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“We will send for Mr. Atwater ; he has been a 
missionary, you know.” 

“You are my missionary, Mrs. Grace. Sit right 
down and let me get a verse, and you talk it to me 
to quiet me ; I feel all upset.” 

“Let me find a verse for you. Greatgrand- 
mother.” 

“No; my way is the best way; I shouldn't 
enjoy your way,” was the answer, with sharp 
decision. 

While Grace pulled off her gloves and laid them 
on the table, with her hat and the few bundles she 
had brought in, she became seriously disturbed ; 
was she not allowing the childlike faith to assume 
a form of superstition? Was there something of 
the fetich in her form of trust? Was it a kind of 
Bible worship ? 

“ Isn’t the verse as good when I find it, Great- 
grandmother? ” she asked with assumed careless- 
ness. 

“ No ; not half as good.” 

“ It is just as true.” 

“ But it isn’t my verse,” she persisted. 

“What makes it your verse ? ” 

“ Getting it makes it mine.” 

“ No, Greatgrandmother ; God’s giving makes it 


THE EPHOD. 


175 


yours. It is as much mine as yours, for he gives 
his truth to all who seek it. Suppose you could 
not lift your finger to get it, would you not enjoy 
something I might find for you ? ” 

“ If you get it that way, I would.” 

“ But I might not get it that way.” 

“ Then I wouldn’t like it so well.” 

“ Not like the words the Lord spoke, which were 
written down, and printed, and kept for you ever 
since the Lord spoke them, just because your own 
finger did not touch them ! ” 

“ But you said it was a good way for me — I 
heard you,” with tearful emphasis. 

“ It was good in the spirit of it ; it was good 
before it became so much to you, before you made 
so much of it. It is a mixing of faith and super- 
stition ; at first I thought it was all faith, and now 
I see, if you would not take it so gladly in any 
other way, that you are making too much of it. 
It has become a snare to you. May I find a place 
to read to you ? ” 

“ No,” said Greatgrandmother, stubbornly ; “ if 
you wont help me, Emily Achsah will. And if 
you wont talk to me about it, I can get along with- 
out it. You are worse than old Miss Gunn.” 


176 


FEOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


“ Oh, no ! ” laughed Grace ; “ she would not go 
off, and I will.” 

“ I don’t want you to be my boarder and sleep 
in the Baron’s room if you are going to be set 
against me and my ways.” 

“Would you want me to comfort you in any 
wrong way — in any way the Lord does not wish 
you to be comforted ? ” 

“How do you know that?” Greatgrandmother 
asked, still stubbornly ; “ you have grown wise 
since last night when you talked so nice about my 
verse. You said it did you good.” 

“ God’s words always do me good. The words 
I read by myself do me good, and I am reading the 
Bible in course. I will begin the New Testament 
and read it through to you.” 

“ Thank you ; I like my own way the best, 
Mrs. Grace,” declined Greatgrandmother with 
simple offended dignity. 

Grace gathered her things together and stood 
with them in her hand ; was she unreasonably 
taking her comfort away from her? Was she such 
a child that in her own childish way she might get 
her word from the Lord? He was very pitiful ; 
he would not allow her to lose her true faith in 


THE EPHOD. 


177 


superstition ; but if she were like a heathen priest 
encouraging fetichism — how could she know? 

“ You needn’t stand there and wait. I sha'n’t 
change my mind ; I’m too old to change now.” 

“ I am willing to change ; I hope I may change, 
if I am wrong ; I want to do the best way, don’t 
you?” 

“ I am doing the best way.” 

Grace laughed again, and bent over the chair to 
kiss the obstinate lips, but Greatgrandmother drew 
back. 

“You are not like Mrs. Teachum.” 

Then a bright thought came to Grace : “ I know 
what you would like — a chapter out of Mrs. 
Teachum.” 

“ I want my word first, Mrs. Grace,” she rebuked. 

“I must think a while first; I will come back.” 

“You needn’t come back to talk like old Miss 
Gunn.” 

But it was not old Miss Gunn who had set 
Grace to thinking; it was Micah, and his ephod 
and carved image. 

Dear old Greatgrandmother sat very still after 
Grace’s step passed through the rooms on her way 
to her own room ; the doors were open through the 
house to the halls, and she heard Mrs. Grace close 
12 


178 


FR03I FLAX TO LINEN. 


her own door. The house was quiet ; Matilda was 
singing in the garden and little Jess was laughing 
and shouting ; she sat very still and all alone, with 
great tears rolling over her cheeks; Mrs. Grace 
was taking away her “word,” and what would she 
have to comfort her any more ? 

Wouldn’t she hear the Lord speaking to her 
again ? He had made her blind and now would 
he let somebody make her deaf to his voice ? She 
could not see his face but she had heard his voice. 
She would be like the woman early at the sepul- 
chre who could not find the Lord. Mrs. Grace — 
and she had been so kind to her and boarded her 
so cheap — had taken away her Lord ! 

If she sent Mrs. Grace away couldn’t she and 
Emily Achsah find her word every night when she 
was so tired and it seemed so long until morning ? 

Matilda came singing in with the corn, and 
brought it to her that she and Jess might husk it 
and pull off the silk, and then the pleasant odor 
of its boiling made her hungry for her supper. 

“ Dearie,” said Jess, looking up into her face as 
she stroked her hands with her own soft, brown 
little fingers, “ what are you crying about ? ” 

“No matter ; you are too small to understand,” 
said Greatgrandmother, chokingly. 


THE EPHOD. 


179 


“ Have you got a pain ? ” persisted the child. 

“ Yes, yes, a dreadful pain ; but don’t tell any- 
body. Don’t tell Mrs. Grace or Emily Achsah.” 

“I wont,” promised Jess, with wondering, round 
eyes. 

“ Now run away and let me alone.” 

At that moment another hand was laid on Great- 
grandmother’s, and Grace’s voice said : “ I have 
something to read to you. Greatgrandmother.” 

“ I want to get it myself,” was the wilful reply. 

“ This is about Baron Steuben ; I have three big 
volumes of history in my room, and I just found 
his picture and something about him.” 

“ Is this house in the book ? And that room ? ” 

“ No ; only his face.” 

“ I wish I had my eyes back again.” 

“ I will tell you how he looks.” 

Grace brought a chair in front of Greatgrand- 
mother, and laid the large, open volume on her 
lap. 

“ Is this him ? ” 

Grace guided her hand, and moved her fingers 
over his face. 

“ It is a good, strong face, with a prominent, 
benevolent chin, fine forehead, and his hair is 
brushed back and tied in a queue ; he is in full 


180 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


uniform, with a cross on his left breast ; he looks 
like a man one could trust — somebody to be obeyed 
as well as admired.” 

The tears were forgetting to fall, the face 
brightened with interest. 

“ I suppose he looked just so when he ate in this 
kitchen and slept in that room. Isn’t there reading 
about him ? ” 

“Not much on this page. Would you like to 
hear it ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; yes, indeed ! ” lifting her hand from 
the precious spot, and leaning back against the 
cretonne cushion. 

Grace read slowly and distinctly: “Notwith- 
standing the hardships and threatened disasters of 
the winter at Valley Forge, there came to the army 
in that encampment one signal advantage which 
told in all the future military operations of the 
war. This was the arrival of Frederick William 
von Steuben, a veteran Prussian general, who had 
learned the art of war under the great Frederick, 
and whose experienced eye saw beneath the tat- 
tered clothing and worn frames of the men the 
material for excellent soldiers. 

“ He proposed to introduce the Prussian system 
of minor tactics, and, beginning on a small -scale, 


THE EPHOD. 


181 


he gradually brought the whole army to an admi- 
rable condition of drill and discipline. Congress 
appointed him to the office of inspector-general, and 
adopted the regulations he had drawn up for the 
American service — ^regulations which were rather 
an adaptation of the Prussian system to the charac- 
ter of the men before him and the needs of the 
army, than a rigid adherence to its tactics. 

“The soldiers were quick enough to see that this 
new inspector-general, unlike the man for whom 
the office was created — Conway — put his heart into 
his work, and was moved by no personal ambition, 
but by a deep interest in the struggle for which 
they were suffering so much, and a sincere desire 
to fit them to achieve success. His very roughness 
of manner and quickness of temper were to them 
an evidence of his sincerity. When in after battle 
fields these men manoeuvred with the precision and 
coolness of a grand parade, simply because they 
knew they were parts of a great machine, whose 
effectiveness depended upon the method of its 
movements and the adaptation of the parts to the 
whole, then they remembered and blessed the 
Baron von Steuben and the way he hammered 
tactics into them. 

“ In other respects his military knowledge was 


182 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


of immense value in many ways, and of all the 
European officers who sought service under the 
new Republic, he did more than any other in aid 
of its complete establishment.” 

‘‘ There, now ! ” exclaimed Greatgrandmother, 
“ I knew it. And I told Betsey Gunn and she 
wouldn’t believe it ! I’ll make her go and look at 
that room next time she comes ! He did more 
than Lafayette, or any of the foreigners. And it 
wasn’t his country, neither ! Can’t you find some 
more ? ” 

“ That is all I can find now.” 

“ I would like to hear the whole book through — 
the whole three books,” said Greatgrandmother, 
wistfully. 

“ Emily shall have them all to read to you.” 

“ Thank you,” said Greatgrandmother, with 
grave courtesy ; “ but because you are so good to 
me, I’m not taking back what I said.” 

“ I understand,” said Grace, smiling ; “ I will 
not be your boarder one hour longer if you wish 
me to leave you.” 

“ 0 you may stay to-night. The Baron would 
not turn you out to-night with all his roughness.” 

“ May I read you something I have found for 
you ? ” Grace inquired, gently. 


THE EPHOD. 


183 


“ I’d rather find it in my own way.” 

“ Is your word truer than any other place ? ” 

“ Why — yes.” 

“ And means more to you ? ” 

“Yes, when you talk about it.” 

“ I will talk about this and then we will see 
about your word afterward. But I think this is 
your word ; I think God meant this for you, and 
for me, and for every one. I am confident that he 
will teach us what it means for us. I will tell you 
the story first, and then read it to you.” 

“ I’m glad it’s a story,” exclaimed Greatgrand- 
mother. 

“ A long, long time ago there was a woman who 
was rich; she was a widow, and she had a son 
named Micah. She saved up a considerable sum 
of money — eleven hundred pieces of silver — and 
one day, when she went to look for it, it was gone ; 
somebody had stolen it. She was so angry about 
its loss that she spoke quick, angry words to her 
son Micah. I do not know what he said to her 
that day, or how long she was angry and grieved 
about her money, but one day he went to her and 
told her that he had stolen her eleven hundred 
pieces of silver. 


184 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ So rejoiced was she to find it that she said : 
‘ Blessed be thou of the Lord, my son.’ 

“ That sounds very thankful and holy, doesn’t 
it? 

“ You would suppose that she thought the bless- 
ing of the Lord was worth seekmg, and getting, 
and keeping. 

“ After he had restore*’ uhe silver to his mother, 
she told him that she had dedicated it all unto the 
Lord. You see ^he seems to care for the Lord, and 
wishes to dedicate her wealth to him.” 

“ I don’t give mine to him,” said Greatgrand- 
mother, in a tone half lamenting and half self-con- 
gratulatory; “I am saving it for Emily Achsah. 
I’ve got more than that safe in the bank ; Mr. At- 
water knows; he is Emily Achsah’s guardian. But 
she was a holy, Bible woman, wasn’t she ? ” 

“ In her speech, yes ; but how do you think she 
dedicated her silver to the Lord ? She took two 
hundred pieces and gave them to the founder to 
make a graven image and a molten image ! ” 

“ Oh, dear me ! ” cried Greatgrandmother’s 
startled voice. 

“ She had forgotten, or did not regard, the com- 
mandment of the Lord to whom she pretended to 
dedicate the silver. She gave the images to Micah, 


THE EPHOD. 


185 


and he placed them in what he called a house of 
God, a little chapel of his own to worship in ; and 
as he had no priest he consecrated one of his sons 
to be a priest. 

“ It seems as if his mother wanted to worship 
God — poor, dear, mistaken old soul — and wanted 
her son and her grandson to worship him. Per- 
haps she was very proud to have a chapel and a 
priest of her own. But after a while a young man 
came to them who belonged to the family of Judah, 
and who was a Levite, and he stayed with them ; 
he came to them as he was journeying, and Micah 
persuaded him to stay and be made his priest. 

“ Then Micah said (as if he had been in doubt 
before), ‘ Now I know that the Lord will do me 
good, seeing I have a Levite to my priest.’ 

“ Micah had made an ephod and a teraphim that 
he might worship God as God had commanded in 
the wilderness when he taught the people through 
the lips of Moses, and Aaron was his chosen high 
priest. 

“ Micah seems to be very religious. The Lord 
told Moses to make an ephod for Aaron, and he 
called his garments holy garments, and they were 
to be for glory and for beauty; the ephod was 
made of gold, and blue, and purple, and scarlet. 


186 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


and line linen, with beautiful embroidery, and on 
its shoulders were two onyx stones. You see how 
splendid it was. The names of the children of 
Israel were engraved upon these two onyx stones. 
And it was that splendid, holy garment that Micah 
tried to imitate and put upon his son ; upon his son 
who had no right to be any kind of a priest.” 

“That was dreadful!” exclaimed Greatgrand- 
mother, with energy; “I shouldn’t think his 
mother would let him.” 

“ I suppose she was very glad and proud of it. 
And she helped it along — this idolatry mingled 
with some knowledge of God and fear of him — 
by giving him the two images. 

“ And after that, some of the Israelites who had 
not found their inheritance in the land of Canaan, 
started out to find it, and sent five men to spy out 
the land and search it, and on their way they came 
to Micah’s house ancj. lodged there. 

“ And when they saw the young man who was 
Micah’s priest they were glad, for they wanted to 
inquire of God to see which way to go to find their 
inheritance in this unknown land. 

“ And they asked the young man to inquire of 
God for them ; they thought God would answer 
because he wore the splendid ephod. 


THE EPHOD. 


187 


“ Once, when David wished to know what the 
Lord wished him to do, he said : ‘ Bring me hither 
the ephod.’ 

“ That was the ephod God had told Moses how 
to make; and the priest was the priest of God, and 
God heard and answered him, and blessed him in 
the answer. But this ephod that Micah made, and 
this priest he consecrated, and these images his 
mother dedicated to the Lord, were the beginning 
of idolatry in the tribe of Dan. These five men 
asked counsel of God in this way he had not ap- 
pointed, in superstitious and disobedient imitation 
of the truth, and then all the tribe of Dan became 
idolaters. 

“ At first they meant to worship the true God, 
but they mixed up his worship with the worship 
of these silver images.” 

“And that old woman began it,” cried Great- 
grandmother ; “ she ought to be ashamed of her- 
self. A pretty way that was to dedicate her silver 
to the Lord ! ” 

“ Perhaps she didn’t begin it, but she greatly en- 
couraged it. Now, don’t you like something in the 
Bible that you do not find yourself?” 

“ I like that. I don’t want to be like her. I 
want to find about God and Jesus in the way he 


188 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


wants me to. Is that what you told me about the 
rich old woman and her silver for?” Greatgrand- 
mother inquired, in her sharpest voice. 

“Yes,” said Grace, very gently. 

“ I don’t think I am like her ! ” with angry 
positiveness. 

“ Oh ! I hope not.” 

“ But you think I may get to be ? ” Greatgrand- 
mother asked with real anxiety. 

“I do believe there is danger that you may 
think your ‘word’ is better than other parts of 
the Bible, and meant more especially for you than 
for anybody, and may lead you to care most and 
only for the truths you find in that way. While it 
is making those truths very precious, it is taking 
from the preciousness of other words just as true, 
and meant just as really for you. Do you see the 
danger ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I do. Will you not trust me ? The very dis- 
appointment and sorrow you have shown proves 
that you do not take as much comfort in the other 
parts. Because I wanted you to listen to the whole 
New Testament you were disappointed. You want 
to choose some parts for yourself.” 

Greatgrandmother leaned her head on her hand; 


THE EPHOD. 


189 


disappointment writing itself in every grieved line 
of her face. 

“ God loves to teach you in the very easiest 
way,” said Grace, her eyes filling with softest tears 
at the remembrance of the way — “ the very easiest 
way ” — in which she herself had been taught that 
God’s will was wisest. 

She had been rebellious ; her way had to be a 
hard way, and yet it was God’s easiest way. 

Now that she was not rebellious, but so willing 
to love his will best and to know (as she had once 
refused to know) that it was the most comforting 
thing he had to give her, would he ever have to 
teach her in a hard way again ? 

“ If you will be sure. Dearie,” tenderly giving 
her the pet name, “ that you will not grow super- 
stitious and make an ephod for yourself out of 
your own fancies, then I think you may ask him 
for your word and be fed with it. But be sure 
and know that all his Word is true, and good, 
and wise, and do not reject any of it.” 

“ I wont ! I wont ! ” cried Greatgrandmother out 
of her softened heart ; “ I’ll remember that woman 
who said she gave her silver to the Lord and then 
made idols out of it. I wont make an idol out of 
the Bible.” 


190 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ You have had your word to-night, then, haven’t 
you ? God has given it in a new way to-night. He 
has a great many ways, and they are all wise ways. 
Will you send your boarder away, do you think?” 

In the relief of her heart Greatgrandmother 
laughed aloud and held up her lips to be kissed. 

“ That corn smells ever so good,” said Grace ; 
“ if Emily doesn’t come we can have supper 
together. I know how to fix your corn.” 

“ Yes,” said Greatgrandmother, as softened as a 
naughty and happy child, “you know how to fix 
most things. I feel as if you had fixed me!’’' 

“ To-morrow I want you to come and see me in 
the Baron’s room.” 

“ Will you read that over again about him ? ” 

“ In his room ! Yes. And we can imagine him 
marching about. And I’ll look in his glass and see 
if I can see his face there.” 

Matilda entered, drew the table out from against 
the wall, and spread the cloth upon it. 

“ Miss Emily feels safe to have you here, 
Mrs. Maxim; that’s why she stays,” volunteered 
Matilda. 

“ She’s a naughty girl ! ” cried Greatgrandmother, 
excitedly ; “ she has got going with that giggling 


THE EPHOD. 


191 


Nette Ferris, and I don’t like it ; do you^ Mrs. 
Grace ? ” 

“ I think they help each other,” returned Mrs. 
Grace, guardedly. 

“ Help each other giggle ! ” was the severe 
rejoinder. 

Standing at the corner cupboard, Jess lifted 
down one of the large pewter plates, and took it 
out to the shed for the smoking ears of corn. 

Upon the table was a newspaper Matilda had 
brought from a closet up-stairs to exhibit to Betsey 
Gunn — The Palladium of Liberty^ with the date. 
May 9, 1808. 

Greatgrandmother had not relented at Miss 
Gunn’s coaxing for it ; it was to be put back for 
Emily Achsah ; people who had new newspapers 
every day had no need to wheedle her out of her 
musty ones. 

She had almost forgotten, but she thought the 
Baron had read that one, and, if he hadn’t (she 
could not be so sure as she used to be about dates) 
she knew he had read her “Imitation of the 
Psalms,” printed long before the Revolution. 

“ Mrs. Grace,” she began anxiously, as. she 
waited for the corn to cool, “ did the Baron read 
English?” 


192 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ I do not know ; English was not the world’s 
language then as it is now.” 

“ He fought in English, anyway.” 

“ I rather think he taught us how to fight in 
German,” laughed Grace. 

Greatgrandmother nibbled at her corn for several 
meditative moments ; the face opposite her was 
thoughtful this afternoon, and when Grace was 
thoughtful she looked sad. 

“ I’m glad he didn’t leave any of his ‘ big, 
strange oaths ’ in these rooms,” burst out Great- 
grandmother ; “ I’m almost afraid that when I 
wake up in the night I shall hear them.” 

Light feet were crossing the shed and laughing 
voices burst in. Emily had brought two of the 
girls home to supper. 

“ Emily Achsah, you’re late,” reproved Great- 
grandmother, still nibbling at her ear of corn. 

“ Not so very. Dearie. Janet told me there was 
a new boarder at their house, and I wanted to see 
her. O Janet ! ” turning to a tall girl behind her, 
“ now I know ! It’s the portrait in Mrs. Maxim’s 
room ! ” 

Mrs. Maxim’s eyes dilated like a startled child’s. 

“ I told Janet she reminded me of somebody ! 
At first I thought I had seen her before. O 


THE EPHOD. 


198 


Dearie ! she is somebody worth staying to look at. 
Her eyes are as black as midnight, and her eye- 
brows, but her hair is beautifully sprinkled with 
white ; it waves away from her forehead, and her 
head is crowned with a glittering black and white 
braid. She has the most mournful eyes I ever saw. 
Why, Janet ! you said her name was Maxim, too.” 

The tall girl hesitated and colored ; it was such 
silly gossip she had heard ; how could it be true ? 

Could this quiet, beautiful Mrs. Maxim be the 
old Judge’s wife who had been so cruel to him, and 
so heartless that his children had sent her away 
with a small income when they had hundreds of 
thousands ? 

“.Yes, she is Miss Maxim,” Janet answered, 
hastily, avoiding the startled eyes that were ques- 
tioning her. 

“And the old lady is her aunt,” interposed the 
other girl ; “ all she cares for is chocolate creams 
and lazy horses to go on long drives. She is Miss 
Henleigh.” 

“•Miss Maxim’s grandmother died just before 
she came here,” volunteered Janet ; “ that is why 
she is so sad.” 

Grace’s white lips were twitching nervously; 

13 


194 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


had Mary, too, come to Brooktown because her 
father loved the place? 

“ Do you know her, Mrs. Grace ? ” asked Emily. 

“Yes; we were school-girls together a long 
while. And — her father was my husband.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed the three girls in chorus. 

“ Her likeness to her father’s portrait is remark- 
able,” Grace added. 

“ She was coming in from driving,” said Emily ; 
“ she moves like a queen. Why, Mrs. Grace, 
she is elegant!’*'* with school-girl eagerness and 
emphasis. 

“ She is J udge Maxim’s daughter,” said Grace ; 
“ that is distinction enough for her.” 

“Isn’t it just as grand to be his wife?” asked 
Emily, jealous for his wife. 

“ That view of it never presented itself to me,” 
replied Judge Maxim’s widow. 

Matilda entered to arrange the supper table for 
the visitors, and Grace excused herself and left 
them chatting and laughing with Greatgrand- 
mother, interested in every new thing they had to 
tell her. It was more wonderful than Mrs. 
Teachum for her boarder to turn out a Judge’s 
wife I 


THE EPHOD. 


195 


“ Does she know Mrs. Grace is here ? ” Great- 
grandmother inquired, mysteriously. 

The story of Mrs. Grace was becoming more 
interesting than Mrs. Teachum ; she would ask her 
to-morrow to begin at the very beginning and tell 
her all about it. Perhaps, after all, she could 
afford to pay more than three dollars a week ! 

“Zs it all true?” asked Janet; “is she Judge 
Maxim’s wife and Miss Maxim’s young step- 
mother ? Did she say that ? ” 

“ I don’t know nothing about it,” said Great- 
grandmother, bending forward and leaning both 
elbows upon the table ; “ and I want to know all 
about it. I tried to ask her one day, but she don’t 
seem to relish answering questions. I knew she 
must be a widow, for she said yes when I asked 
her ; but she hasn’t been a widow long. Was 
Judge Maxim very grand?” 

“ Yes,” replied Janet ; “ Miss Henleigh told me 
all about him. She said Mrs. Maxim had been 
cruel to him and very hard on Miss Mary Maxim, 
and they had to send her away to keep the peace.” 

“ I don’t believe it!” burst out the other girl. 
Rose Smiley, one of Grace’s fifteen Sunday after- 
noon girls. “ If she were in the house, the big. 


196 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


white, lazy, purring, deceitful old cat, she would 
make trouble enough ! ” 

The laugh and applause sounded through the 
house, and stopped in its way at the open door of 
the Baron’s room. 

Grace was standing at the mantel, with her 
hands lifted and laid over each other upon it, 
looking up into her husband’s face. 

“ My darling ! ” she murmured, with the tears 
streaming down her cheeks, “nobody can come 
between us now.” 


XIL 


MAKY MAXIM. 

The next morning Grace was busy in her room 
looking over old pages, written journal fashion in 
any blank book she had chanced to have at hand; 
to her surprise and delight, among some old pieces 
of manuscript packed away in a trunk she had 
brought from the Backwoods, she found stories of 
school-girl life that she had written to please the 
girls at school ; a score of poems that no one but 
her husband had ever seen, with many “ short sen- 
tences drawn from a long experience,” holding 
truths that she would be glad to burn into some 
giiTs heart as they had been burned into her own. 

How often she had exclaimed that first year in 
the grateful surprise of it : “ You do not seem old 
to me.” 

His reply was ever the same : “ How can I when 
you make me grow younger every day ! ” 

As she turned the leaves she said to herself that 
she must have been born “old;” she could not 

( 197 ) 


198 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


believe that Emily or Nette Ferris could write such 
pages as these. 

One day her husband found her penciling a sud- 
den thought; with a shy motion she pushed the 
book out of his sight ; but he brought it to light 
again, and captured hand and pencil. 

“As a penalty for having a secret you must read 
this book to me,” he said. “ You must not have 
one secret page.” 

Nevertheless he had to read the page himself : 

“Nothing but love can make loveliness; if you 
want somebody to love you, love him. 

“ Think of the quiet, efficient work in Solomon’s 
great temple! Would I have my work tell like 
that ? 

“ How can T until I work with a meek and quiet 
spirit ? (Oh ! shall I ever ?) 

“ I must remember that every weakness in those 
about me is a claim upon my strength ; God makes 
a weak somebody for the sake of a strong some- 
body. 

“ Some things are hard to God because we make 
them hard to him. 

“ I make it hard for him to do quiet work with 
me. I fume, and fuss, and fret, and I know all the 
time that he loves a quiet spirit.” 


MAEY MAXIM. 


199 


She was hiding her head upon his shoulder, with 
tears of shame dropping slowly upon the fingers 
held tightly over her eyes. 

“ To think that my laughing, singing, trifling 
little wife should be Emersonian in her method ! 
He tells us that he used to walk in the woods after 
breakfast in pursuit of a thought, as boys go out 
in summer to catch butterflies ; he was not always 
successful any more than the boys are, but when 
successful no boy was ever happier with his butter- 
fly than he with his thought. 

“ He kept what he called a Thought Book ; 
what do you call yours. Grade? He entered each 
thought in this book, having worked it over and 
clothed it to suit his sense of fitness. I do not 
believe you work yours over. 

“ He was generally satisfied with one thought a 
day. How is it with you? Will three hundred 
and sixty-five thoughts a year satisfy your aspira- 
tions? ” 

Drawing herself away from' his eyes, she lifted 
her head and brushed her tear-blurred eyes : “ I 
never knew about Emerson ; I never read a line of 
his in my life. I’ve written this way ever since I 
wrote at all, and I suppose I always shall, unless it 
seems too silly to you. You are wise and have 


200 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


wise thoughts, but these silly little thoughts help 
me. I date them, and keep my journal this way. 
Every entry has its own story. Some of the 
thoughts have grown out of a long story ; I live a 
long time, and one line tells the story of it. It is 
the one drop crushed out of me.” 

“ The ottar of roses of your rose-leaf existence,” 
he said, teasingly, determined not to show her that 
he had learned a new thing about her that day. 

As she read this page and lingered over it, how 
this day came back to her ; she heard his voice and 
felt the pressure of his arms. 

Was it wise to let her tears fall so ? 

Might she not better burn her books and tell 
Dr. Atwater she could not write for girls ? 

There were many, many happy hours^ like this 
to be remembered, and oh, how bitterly she had 
told her story to Auntie Holbrook ! 

How was it that all the bitterness had been 
burned out of her heart ? 

Could love consume like that? Was not love 
itself a consuming fire ? 

But the love could not consume the memory of 
her own bitter moods and unjust words. 

Would God’s forgiveness itself ever make her 


MARY MAXIM. 


201 


forget that she had said : “ I wish I had died before 
I married you.” 

Had she atoned ? Might she still further atone 
by loving his only daughter ? 

No one was so near to him as Mary ; if Mary 
might only have need of her! 

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!” she burst out groan- 
ing, as something flashed through heart and brain, 
setting them on Are, and then, with her old rebell- 
ion strong upon her : “ I wont ! I wont ! ” 

Might she not have it copied ? 

“ It’s mine ! it’s mine ! ” she cried in loud vehe- 
mence. 

She had seen Mary kneel before it and kiss lips 
and brow ; she had heard her cry : “ O father ! 
father! father!” 

Would anything comfort her like that? 

And she might keep the copy herself ! 

No ; she could not have a copy ; this was him- 
self ; he had seen this and said he was .satisfied to 
look like that ; his hands had touched it. 

Would the Lord like to have her give it away? 

Did he care that she had stood longer before 
that picture last night than she had kneeled in 
prayer to him ? 


202 FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 

I will ! I will ! I will ! ’’ she sobbed, in broken- 
hearted willingness. 

Before her tears were dried, steps and voices in 
the hall disturbed her; the next moment Emily 
knocked at the door. 

Behind Emily in the broad hall, with the sun- 
shine streaming in through the open door, stood a 
tall figure draped heavily in crape; Grace saw 
nothing but the eyes so like the eyes looking down 
upon them both from the wall ; with a stifled cry 
she threw her arms about her. 

“ O Grace, do you care like this ? ” exclaimed a 
sobbing voice. 

Grace drew her in and shut the door. Had the 
time come at last when there was nothing and no 
one between herself and her husband’s daughter? 

“ I promised Aunt Horatia I would stay but half 
an hour,” she said, looking at her watch. 

In that half hour so little was said ; Grace be- 
came frigid at the mention of Aunt Horatia, and 
Mary went away almost repenting that she came. 
If she had only cared as she had that first half 
minute she might have become brave enough to 
have braved even John and Aunt Horatia. But 
Aunt Horatia was in a carriage at the gate, and 
she had a painful attack of coughing, and Grace 


MABY MAXIM. 


203 


grew colder every minute, and the half hour was 
over before she had said one thing that she had 
thought to say lying awake in the starlight last 
night. 

Grace was so changed ! Before long, when she 
died — she would say it — perhaps she would send 
for her; John could not hurt her then. Lying 
awake in the starlight, how many times she lived 
again that half hour from the moment that she had 
nervously taken out her watch ; if Grace had not 
frozen so — if she had only been braver, and had 
not started at the sound of the warning and 
expectant cough in the carriage ! 

Mary Maxim started for Riverside two days 
afterwards ; the next morning, although she knew 
nothing about it, her father’s portrait was packed 
and on its way to Riverside. 


XIII. 


A GLANCE BACKWARD. 

In the few words of farewell spoken with tightly 
clasped hands, neither Mary nor Grace made any 
allusion to meeting again ; what could Mary say, 
feeling the keen eyes that were watching her and 
the keen ears that were eager for every word that 
might pass between her and her father’s wife ? 

The two women stood together at the gate ; 
Grace advanced not one step to speak to Miss 
Henleigh, and barely acknowledged her slight 
recognition ; these two were women without 
mother, sister, daughter ; two women who were 
strangely attracted to each other for the sake of 
one whom both loved ; two women who admired 
and trusted each other ; two women who had 
wronged each other. 

“ If only I might live it over again ! ” was in the 
passionate thought of both. 

That night while Mary lay awake in the star- 
light, Grace, too restless to sleep, arose and sat 
down at her writing-table ; a great wave of loneli- 
( 204 ) 


A GLANCE BACKWARD. 


205 


ness and desolation rolled over her ; she dropped 
her head as if to let it pass, and sat motionless 
with her hands pressed into her eyes. After a 
while she sobbed one word; “Father!” and then: 
“ For Jesus’ sake.” 

There were no words ; she knew only that she 
asked for strength to bear his will, to love his 
will, to work for his will. 

With a yearning for the time that could never 
come again, she pushed the papers away that cov- 
ered one of her small blank books, and took it 
into her hand ; on its first page in one of his hours 
of weariness her husband had scribbled her name, 
and his, and the date. 

Seven years ago to-day! And there might be 
seven more years before she was called to be with 
Him, to be with the One she was praying to love 
more than she loved her husband. 

How full those pages were of that seven years 
ago time ! She felt them all ; her husband when 
he loved her, and her husband when he changed 
towards her with somebody coming between ; the 
grandmother with her dignity and silence ; the aunt 
with her soft, purring voice, and tread as noiseless 
as a cat ; John with his grim ways, his ungracious 
toleration of herself ; Harold, timid, shy, loving her 


206 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


in a boyish fashion one day and ashamed of it the 
next; and Mary, poor Mary, there was always 
Mary. 

For an hour she lived in the past, and then, 
quieted, lay down to sleep, wrapped around in 
God’s will. 

Greatgrandmother was “ fretful,” as Matilda 
phrased it, the next day, and in the middle of the 
afternoon asked that she might have her supper 
early and go to bed. 

When Grace entered the kitchen about twilight, 
she found Emily alone, standing at the tea-table. 

“ Dearie said not to wait for you, Mrs. Maxim ; 
she was too tired. I wanted to find her ‘word’ 
for her, but she was very sharp about it, and told 
me to read where you left off. She said she would 
take that to bed with her. She doesn’t seem to 
want her ‘ word ’ as she did ; Matilda says it's a 
bad sign,” said Emily, anxiously ; “ do you think 
it is?” 

“ No ; I think it is a good sign. Where did I 
leave off ? ” 

“ She said you left a blue ribbon in the place. 
I read one verse and she was satisfied ; she said it 
was a pretty verse and so easy ; it was about the 


A GLAJVCE BACKWARD. 


207 


wise virgins taking oil in their vessels with their 
lamps.” 

The anxious look was in Emily’s eyes as she 
poured the tea for Grace ; as the two lingered at 
the tea-table chatting over a call or two Grace had 
made among her girls, in a loud, strong voice 
Greatgrandmother called, “ Emily Achsah.” 

Half an hour later, as Grace was lighting her 
lamp in her own room, Emily appeared in the door- 
way with a laughing light in her eyes. 

“ It was too comical about Grandmother, Mrs. 
Maxim ; she called me to get some oil to put 
in her lamp, and she was afraid it was too late ; I 
told her that she was dreaming, and that Matilda 
always filled the lamps in the morning, and she 
said : ‘ Oh, dear me ! ’ in that funny, distressed way 
she has, and turned her head away from me. She 
has said such queer things for two or three days ; 
last night in the night she awoke me to tell me 
that she wouldn’t wear an ephod.” 

Emily went away laughing, and in a few moments 
passed the windows with Janet Ray. 

Grace settled the white shade upon her lamp, 
and turned the burner cautiously so as not to 
blur the glass ; the chains attached to a big, farm 
wagon rattled as the stout horses trotted past the 


208 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


house ; a church-bell was ringing off somewhere ; 
Matilda was scolding Jessie in the shed ; J oseph’s 
voice interrupted her in good-humored protest and 
protection. There was nothing unfamiliar in any 
of these sounds ; they were all like home, like her 
new home, the home she was striving so bravely to 
make for herself, but to-night they brought home- 
sick tears. 

Not trusting herself to glance towards the empty 
space (oh ! how empty) above the mantel, she shut 
the door and shut herself in, alone and desolate, 
even although she knew she was shutting herself 
in with Christ, who has promised to come and sup 
with those who love him. 

“ Lord, I am very human,” she said to him that 
night. “ I know it was a comfort to thee to have 
John’s head leaning on thy bosom.” 

The record of her old life was close at hand ; it 
might send her to bed with a still more aching 
heart, but who else was near, what human compan- 
ionship beside had she ? 

The first words she lighted on w^ere these : 

“ In Ratisbon in 1716, in a church, was a large 
silver image of the Trinity, where the Father is 
represented under the figure of a decrepit old man 
with a beard down to his knees, holding in his 


A GZAJVCi: BACKfVABD. 


209 


arms the Son fixed on the cross, and the Holy- 
Ghost in the shape of a dove hovering over him.” 

She shivered as she read, and wondered why she 
had made a note of it ; it must have been that as 
she sat writing her husband had told her about it ; 
from his years of reading and months of travel he 
gave her something to think about every time she 
sat down beside him. 

“ Little Backwoods, I would like to show you 
the world,” he said once. 

“ Only the good in it,” she pleaded ; “ I am so 
afraid of wicked people and wicked things.” 

“ There’s plenty of good,” he returned. 

“ ‘ God’s in his heaven, 

All’s right in the world.’ ” 

That quotation came next. He had quoted it to 
her. 

“ If you could follow some one whom Jesus 
healed, who would it be ? ” 

She remembered how she had pondered for days 
the answer she gave to herself : “ The man whose 
sins were forgiven ; his sins were forgiven first, 
and then he was healed. First, forgiveness ; and 
then, healing. What next ? 

“ Jesus gave the best first. 

“ And then he was sent to his house, not with 

14 


210 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


any command excepting to take up his bed and go 
home. We do not know surely that the man spoke 
one word. 

“ Before this day Jesus must have seen him 
and known what he wanted most, just as he saw 
Nathanael under the fig tree. 

“ I would love to know all the things this man 
did that day, and what he talked about. 

“ He may have done only the common things 
that I do this day — this day that the same Jesus 
has forgiven me. 

“ I have not spoken of him to any one ; I have 
not done one new thing ; but I did hear Harold 
say to his father : ‘ Grace has lovely eyes.’ 

“ I know the forgiveness was in my eyes. 

“ My husband drew my face down and looked 
into it, and said : ‘ Your expression is very sweet 
to-day.’ 

“ ‘I know it,’ I said, and wondered at myself 
for saying it. 

“ I have almost loved Mrs. Henleigh to-day. 

“ I am sure I have forgiven her.” 

Yes, she must have forgiven her, for she remem- 
bered that she went to her and asked her to come 
and sit an hour with her husband while she dusted 


A GLANCE BACKWARD. 


211 


some valuable vases for him in the library that no 
one must touch while Mary was in Richmond. 

How amazed the old lady had looked ! Grace 
did not believe she had tried to come between 
herself and her husband that day. 

“ ‘ My faith was not disappointed.’ I read that 
in a leaflet to-day, and wondered how faith ever 
could be disappointed. 

“ When we are disappointed, what is disappoint- 
ment ? 

“Yesterday I read about two little girls out west 
filling their shoes with corn at night, and praying 
that in the morning they might find the corn turned 
into money. 

“One of them sai(^ in the morning: ‘We were 
pretty spunky when we found the corn just as we 
had left it, and no money.’ 

“ The children must have had some faith — 
enough to feel ‘ pretty spunky ’ over their disap- 
pointment. 

“ Oh, dear ! how much enlightenment we need ! 

“ I should be sorry to disappoint two children 
so ; I know the Lord was sorry. 

“ I should want to draw them close to me, and 
explain to them how to do a better way. 

“ Did he not want to ? And has he not ? 


212 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Is he not every day drawing me closer and 
explaining to me the better way? 

“ Mr. Spurgeon says : ‘ God’s people are the 
hungriest in the world.’ 

“ Oh ! shall I ever reach those shining table- 
lands to which our God himself is moon and sun ? 

“And yet on the shining mount, when the cloud 
that overshadowed them was bright, the disciples 
fell on their faces and were sore afraid. 

“ ‘ They feared as they entered into the cloud.’ 

“ I am so afraid of everything ; I think I am 
still afraid of God’s will. 

“ He is very kind when we are afraid. 

“ To-day my husband asked me if I loved River- 
side. 

“ ‘ I more than love it,’ I said ; ‘ it would break 
my heart to go away.’ 

“ And yet I know how he made his will ! I 
think he has forgotten, and remembers only the 
first will. 

“ John Maxim will not forget the second ; per- 
haps he does not know about the first. 

“ ‘ What is the good of looking backward ? ’ 
Mary asked to-day. 

“ 1 know ; it helps me to understand the present. 
A glance backward saddens me, and yet I know 


A GLAJVC:^ BACKWARB. 


213 


how good it is for me. I can see how and where I 
learned to be J udge Maxim’s wife. 

“ I am glad he has me ; I am almost glad he has 
me rather than a wiser wife. 

“ Loving makes up for all I lack, he says.” 

Had she forgotten that ? The comfort of it to- 
night was inexpressible. Loving did “ make up,” 
and that was why God asked for love, and could 
not be satisfied without it. Why, love was the 
fulfilling of the law ! 

Might she love Christ so much that her impa- 
tience, and weariness, and loneliness would not 
grieve him ? 

She was never “ pretty spunky ” nowadays, but 
she was often something that stood for it. 

Was evbr linen before so long in being woven 
and bleached ? Suppose she were only flax yet ? 

Well; the smoking flax he would not quench; 
even if it were only dimly burning like the wick 
of a lamp, he would not quench its dim light; 
would he not kindle it into brighter burning? 

“ My husband’s friend, the minister, has been 
with us a week. What good talks we have !- 

“ My husband listens ; it is not his way to talk. 
‘The Lord knew you would pray that prayer,’ he 
said to me once when we chanced to be alone (the 


214 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Judge having fallen asleep in his chair), ‘and in 
his thought of you made provision for it.’ 

“ How could he but provide for it having in- 
spired it. I found courage to tell him how I pray 
to be made a channel through which good may 
flow; I pray for that with all the strength and 
desire that is in me — and yet, humanly speaking, 
it seems so unlikely. 

“ ‘ People have prayed for very queer things,’ he 
said ; ‘ who ever told all he has prayed for ? ’ (I 
wouldn’t dare.) 

“ That fine saying : ‘ God keeps his word with 
our instincts,’ is a great deal to me. , 

“ My husband quoted it one day when he said I 
was only a bundle of impulses and instincts — he 
added, ‘ in the form of a lovely woman.’ (I put 
this down to comfort me in some lonely time.)” 

The comfort for the moment was enough ; she 
would go many days in the strength of this back- 
ward glance. 

“‘You cannot ask anything that seems queer to 
God,’ he said another time. 

“ Nothing seems queer to the man who has 
studied the ways of every nation ; how can any- 
thing seem queer to him who has studied the ways 
of every human heart ? 


A GLAJVCi: BACKWABD. 


215 


“You were not put together anyhow; you were 
put together somehow ; you are not a puzzle to the 
hand that made you. 

“ And then I laughed. 

“ My husband says I am brightened up. It 
takes so little to depress me or lift me up. A row 
on the river, a talk with Harold, a loving look from 
Mary (when she dares) puts new life in me.” 

But how could Mary give anything to one so 
frozen as she had become as soon as she knew that 
Miss Henleigh was waiting in the carriage, and 
that promise of “ half an hour ” proved that Mary 
was under her spell as spellbound as ever ? 

She felt as if she were talking to Miss Henleigh 
and not to Mary ; oh, if only she had behaved her- 
self! But she had not, and she never did till 
afterward; she might write to Mary, but Miss 
Henleigh always read Mary’s letters ; she was so 
afraid something in them might “ excite ” her. 

Grace had come to the end of herself ; she said 
she came to the end of herself every time she 
spent an hour alone with herself. 

But the glance backward had given her some- 
thing to talk to girls about ; before midnight she 
wrote two papers, one entitled Hindering and Get- 


216 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


ting Ready to Hinder, and the other Helping and 
Getting Ready to Help. 

As she laid her pen aside and arose to go to the 
window and look out into the starlight, a black, 
frightened face pushed itself in at the quickly 
opened door. 

“ Grandmother groaned and I went to look at 
her. She keeps talking. I wish you would come. 
Emily Achsah is so hard to wake up, and I don’t 
want to frighten her.” 

The two women hurried through the silent rooms 
to Greatgrandmother’s bedside ; the faithful serv- 
ing-woman held the candlestick unsteadily in her 
hand while Grace bent over the changed face. 

“ Come, Joshua,” called Greatgrandmother, loud 
and shrill, “ let’s go and see your mother.” 

It was not until the next midnight that Great- 
grandmother passed away ; more than once she 
spoke the last thought that had impressed her 
about having oil in her lamp, and when Grace told 
her about the Bridegroom coming, she seemed to 
listen with pleased attention. 

After that her mind wandered to her own father 
and mother, and if she stayed so long she was 
afraid mother would be worried about her. 


A GLANCE BACKWARD. 


217 


“ She has got home,” she said, rousing out of 
sleep. 

“ Yes,” said Grace, in a sympathetic voice. 

“ It’s good to get home after being away so 
long,” she said distinctly. 

“Yes,” said Grace, again, smoothing back the 
thin hair from the cold forehead. 

“ Make her speak to me,” sobbed Emily, clinging 
to Grace. 

“ Greatgrandmother, do you want to see Emily 
Achsah?” asked Grace, while Emily’s face was 
pressed close to the cold cheek. 

“ I don’t know where she is,” she answered, 
pitifully. 

“ I don’t like her to die like that,” cried Emily, 
passionately. 

“ The Lord does,” said Grace, taking the fright- 
ened, sobbing girl into her arms, “ he is having his 
way; isn’t that loving, pitiful way good enough 
for her, and for you ? ” 

After that she slept, and Matilda noticed that 
the Baron’s clock struck twelve a moment or two 
after her breath did not come again. 


XIV. 


EMILY’S QUESTION AND ANSWER. 

Emily would not wear mourning ; Greatgrand- 
mother had not liked it ; she said once : “ I want 
you to dress just the same, Emily Achsah;” so 
Emily went about the house in the pretty white 
dresses Greatgrandmother had liked to touch ; her 
“mourning” was in her eyes and in the tears she 
shed when alone with Grace in the Baron’s room. ' 

“ I do feel alone, Mrs. Maxim ; I was her flesh 
and blood, and now I am not anybody’s.” 

“ It is hard to be alone, dear.” 

Emily was sitting at a window in the Baron’s " 
room with a book, half hidden by the pink and 
white confusion in her lap that she had been pre- 
tending to sew upon for the last hour. The 
material was pink and white muslin she had 
bought for a dress the last day that Greatgrand- 
mother sat in her chair ; Greatgrandmother had 
rubbed it between her hands and said it was good 
stuff, and would “ wash.” 

For the last five minutes Emily had been watch- 

( 218 ) 


EMILY'S QUESTION AND ANSWER. 219 

ing Grace at her work. It seemed to her that Mrs. 
Maxim did nothing but write, and when she was 
not writing she knew she was thinking about it. 

Ben said he would not marry a literary woman 
for anything ; but then Ben did not know this 
literary woman as she did. 

“ Mrs. Maxim, no one would ever guess you 
wrote,” said Emily, suddenly breaking what 
seemed to her an age of silence. 

',,“Why? Because of my bad grammar?” in- 
quired the writer, innocently. 

Many times Emily found she could laugh again ; 
she believed Mrs. Maxim loved to make her laugh. 

It was four weeks to-day since Greatgrandmother 
.died. 

“ Mrs. Maxim, I wish you loved to talk as well 
as you love to write.” 

The fretfulness in the girl’s voice was something 
- foreign to it ; Ben had told her that she still had 
reason to be the happiest girl in the world. 

“ I do — very often.” 

“ I wish you did this minute ; is this too often ? 
You haven^t talked to me since breakfast.” 

“ I am a selfish creature,” said Grace, penitently, 
“ but I always have something I want to finish.” 


220 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ When did you begin ? ” asked Emily, with a 
feeling of curiosity. “ I mean when did you begin 
these unfinished things?” 

“ I never begun, I think — I found it begun ; I 
am only going on.” 

“And you thought you couldn’t ! ” 

“ I wouldn’t be sure 1 could now, but for Dr. 
Atwater.” 

“ He admires you.” 

“ I love him ! ” cried Grace, enthusiastically. 

“ Do you think Ben is like him ? ” 

Ben Atwater! He was the homeliest young 
man, Grace thought, she had ever seen, with his 
smooth, sallow face ; small, light, expressionless 
eyes; thin, light hair; wide mouth and irregular, 
large teeth. 

But he was the perfection of neatness ; his voice 
drew you on to trust him ; he was gentle, stead- 
fast, strong ; there was something in the touch of 
his hand, something in his manner, an inexpressible 
something about his whole self that made you long 
to see him again and have him speak to you. You 
might forget what he said, but you would not for- 
get the effect upon yourself. 

Grace said something like this to Emily. 

“ I am glad you feel so — too,” she said. “ He 


EMILT^S QUESTION AND ANSWER, 221 

said last night that you look so much happier than 
when you came ; his father thinks he has found a 
mine in you ; he says he discovered you.” 

“ So he did — to myself. Emily, child, how can 
you feel ‘ alone ’ with such a father, mother, sister 
and brother as you have in the Atwaters ? ” 

“ Ben says I am ungrateful.” 

“ If I had them as you have I should not know 
what else or whom else to wish for excepting 
Mary.” 

“ But haven’t you — anybody?” 

“ My dear old Auntie ! That is all. And I 
want so many or so much. O Emily, child, I am 
lonelier than you. I have had my happiness and 
my home, and you are in yours.” 

Emily’s smile was wistful; Dearie was not in 
her happiness. 

“ I am happier every day ; I grow happier, I feel 
the growing ; but waves of desolation pass over 
me still.” 

“We girls tried to describe you one Sunday, and 
it is funny how we couldn’t agree — one might have 
thought we were speaking of different people.” 

“ Do tell me ; I like to know how I strike girls.” 

“You will not mind?” 


222 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Not at all. Do your worst. You cannot think 
of me as badly as I think of myself.” 

“ Somebody said you were proud, it was in your 
face and your manner, even when you were sweet- 
est ; somebody else said you seemed so sure of 
yourself, and somebody else that you were bright, 
and somebody wilful, and somebody quiet, and I 
said sad. I knew you best, and I said when your 
face was quiet it was very sad.” 

“ I am sorry for that ; I do not know how to 
hinder it. Perhaps you mean thoughtful.” 

“ Perhaps I do.” 

“ One cannot well keep the experience of one’s 
life out of one’s face ; I know I have looked worn 
at times ; but how can one wear and not look 
worn ? ” 

“ I think you are a very happy woman ; Miss 
Betsey says you are.” 

“ I am — with her. I come out of myself.” 

“ Mrs. Maxim. — ” 

Emily paused; the question was not easy to ask, 
for the name of the Lord seldom passed her lips. 
She had never thought of it before, and she would 
like to know. 

“Do you think Jesus Christ had a beautiful 
face?” 


EMILT^S QUESTION AND ANSWER. 223 

“We know what Isaiah says of him: ‘ He hath 
no form nor comeliness ; and when we shall see 
him, there is no beauty that we should desire 
him.’ ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Emily, disappointedly ; “ I wanted 
him to be comely and beautiful.” 

Grace went to one of her chimney cupboards, 
and brought back a book. 

“ I asked your question once, and found an 
answer here. I will read it to you.” 

Emily drew up her feet and nestled back in her 
big chair ; just now to have Mrs. Maxim read to 
her was perfect content, and to read about him 
whom she was beginning to love as she did not 
love any one beside. 

Grace read with an enjoyment as full as Emily’s : 

“ ‘ When we reflect that our Lord became indeed 
a man, and, as a man, was seen by friends and ene- 
mies walking the dusty roads and narrow streets of 
Palestine, there can be no harm in trying to realize 
to ourselves the appearance which he, as a man, 
during his sojourn on earth presented to the eyes 
of men. 

‘ That which ordinary men were permitted to 
behold in the common circumstances of daily life, 
we need not shrink from picturing to our minds. 


224 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


‘ To attempt to realize materially to the mental 
conception, and still more to represent in painting 
or sculpture, the Divine Godhead, is a different 
matter from the attempt to depict to the mind him 
who was God manifest in the flesh. 

‘While, therefore, we can regard without dis- 
pleasure even paintings in which the Lord Jesus is 
represented in some of the circumstances of his 
life on earth, we cannot but shrink with dismay 
from the representations of God the Father, and 
of Christ glorified, which are so common abroad, 
and which, although but rarely seen here, are but 
too well known to us by means of engravings. 

‘ The effect is injurious to the mind. 

‘ Of this we can well judge from the shock we 
only yesterday received in lighting accidentally 
upon an engraving thus representing the Almighty 
seated upon his throne.’ ” 

“Oh, how did anybody dare!^^ interrupted 
Emily. 

“ ‘ The work was beautiful, but a faintness came 
over our spirit, and it was felt as if the soul had 
received some stain in having thus received the 
impact of an unspiritual idea of God. 

‘ But with regard to the Lord Jesus, the case is, 
as we have said, altogether different ; and, so long 


EMILY'S QUESTION AND ANSWER. 225 

as the inquiry is conducted with the reverence due 
to his sacred and venerable person, it is quite allow- 
able, and is indeed natural, to inquire in what 
aspect he appeared anlong men. 

‘ In fact, whether like it or not, we do uncon- 
sciously form to ourselves an idea of the person of 
Christ. 

‘ It is impossible to read the Gospels, containing 
the history of his life and death, without realizing 
to ourselves an idea of his appearance, just as we 
do of any other historical personage. It is impos- 
sible to help it ; and it is no sin. These ideal 
images vary, but are more alike than might be 
supposed, being in a great degree founded upon 
the prints and pictures in which our Lord is repre- 
sented, and which have all a certain resemblance 
to each other, being founded upon traditional de- 
scriptions of no real aiithority, and on ancient 
likenesses in medals, pictures, statues — all ac- 
knowledged to be spurious. 

‘ There are, in fact, certain passages of the pro- 
phetical Scriptures which seem to invite, and have 
invited, attention to this question. Two of them 
occur in two adjoining chapters of Isaiah. 

‘No prophecies in the Bible more clearly refer 

15 


226 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


to our Lord than those contained in chapters lii., 
liii.’ ” 

Emily asked, eagerly ; “ May I read them to 
you?” 

With a new appreciation she read the chapters 
indicated ; she had learned them when a child on 
Sunday evenings sitting close to Greatgrand- 
mother ; but no question concerning them had 
been asked or answered. 

Not like the man of Ethiopia under Candace, 
the queen, did she even think to ask : “ I pray thee, 
of whom speaketh the prophet this? of himself, or 
of some other man ? ” 

Philip “ began at the same Scripture, and 
preached unto him Jesus.” 

And when Emily asked, as if afraid that she 
might be mistaken : “ Are you sure this is written 
about Jesus?” Grace found the place in Acts for 
her, and let her read aloud the interview between 
Philip and the eunuch. 

“ If Philip was sure, I am,” said Emily. “Now 
do go on, please.” 

Grace read on : 

“ ‘ In the former we read (verse 14) : “ His visage 
was so marred more than any man, and his form 
more than the sons of men.’ ” 


EMILY^S QUESTION AND ANSWEE. 227 

‘ And in the latter (verse 2) : “ He hath no form 
nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is 
no beauty that we should desire him.’ ” 

‘ This obviously raises the question: Was Jesus 
distinguished among men by the beauty of his 
person, or otherwise ? 

‘We have not to inquire what is most pleasant 
to believe in this matter, but what is most probably 
true. 

‘ For ourselves, we do not know what is “ most 
pleasant” to believe. 

‘ When we reflect, that of the men distinguished 
for personal graces there are few who have taken a 
leading part in human affairs, or have won high 
names in the various paths of honor — ’ ” 

“ Then I don’t mind about Ben, Mrs. Maxim I 
I didn’t before, but I’m glad to have it put that 
way.” 

Grace smiled and went on : “ ‘ we hesitate to 
think it more pleasant to contend that our Lord 
was endowed with that beauty which charms the 
eye. 

‘ The world, however, has generally decided that 
it is more pleasant ; and therefore certainly this is 
the prevalent opinion, and is likely to remain such. 

‘ In support of this view we are referred to one 


228 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


of the Messianic Psalms (xlv), in which Christ is 
described as “ fairer than the sons of men,” and vve 
are reminded that in our Lord’s birth and bringing 
up all the circumstances were present which, under 
ordinary circumstances, conduce to the perfection 
and beauty of the human form, and all the inci- 
dents were absent which tend to prevent its most 
admirable development. 

‘ Some ascribe to the winning charm of his aspect 
the facility with which the apostles left all to follow 
him, and infer the solemn majesty of his counte- 
nance from the facts that the dealers submitted to 
be driven from the Temple by his single hand, and 
that the men who came to apprehend him in the 
garden fell back, subdued and dismayed, when he 
confronted them. 

‘ This, in each instance, seems to us a wretch- 
edly (we had almost said revoltingly) low ascrip- 
tion to the influence of personal appearance, the 
power of that Divine energy which wrought with 
him and in him as he would, and which doubtless 
was seen in his eyes and was heard in his voice, 
whatever may have been his personal appearance. 

‘ The question is not to be decided by such con- 
siderations ; and the text on which so much reli- 


EMILY'S QUESTION AND AN S WEB. 229 

ance is placed clearly refers to Christ glorified, and 
not to Christ in the day of his humiliation. 

‘ Besides, in different climates and countries, 
different ideas are entertained of that which con- 
stitutes beauty of personal appearance ; and that 
which is beautiful in the eyes of one nation is not 
so in that of another. Thus, if our Lord appeared 
under an aspect of outward beauty, it was doubt- 
less Jewish beauty ; and this, although upheld by 
some as the perfection of manly comeliness, is not, 
we apprehend, generally so regarded in western 
and northern Europe. 

‘ This is shown by the fact that the painters, in 
their representations of our Lord’s person^ never 
ascribe to it a Jewish aspect. 

‘Having this difference in the standard of human 
beauty in view, it is well that we are left in igno- 
rance regarding the exact personal appearance of 
the founder of a religion destined to overspread all 
the nations of the earth. 

‘ On the other hand it cannot be denied that the 
passages in Isaiah which refer to the subject, and 
which are found in the most literal -of his prophe- 
cies, are altogether unfavorable to the idea of the 
Messiah’s being distinguished for the beauty of his 
visage in the time of his earthly sojourning. 


230 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


‘ The want of this is rather set forth as part of 
his humiliation, and without it that humiliation 
would scarcely have been complete. 

‘ If we interpret literally the rest of this pro- 
phecy, why should this be figurative ? 

‘ May it not have been part of the Divine plan 
to rebuke the pride of man and his inordinate ap- 
preciation of mundane beauty, as it was in the 
assignment of the chief part in the calling of the 
Gentiles to the fold of Christ by one “ whose bod- 
ily presence was weak and his speech contempt- 
ible?” 

‘ The upholders of the literal interpreters of 
these passages, in their application to the person 
of Christ, remind us that throughout the New Tes- 
tament there is no ascription to him of that out- 
ward grace and beauty that at once attracts the 
love and regard of man. ^ 

‘ It is remembered that Mary Magdalene took 
him for the gardener after his resurrection; and 
some, comparing this text with that in which Paul 
describes our Lord as having taken on him the 
form of a servant, urge for this a personal applica- 
tion, also. 

E ‘ It is also noted that the Evangelists record the 
circumstances of his transfiguration in such a man- 


EMILY’S QUESTION AND ANSWEU. 231 

ner as to show that his ordinary appearance to 
them was something very different indeed, and 
that it was then only, and for a moment, that he 
was seen by the three privileged disciples as “fairer 
than the sons of men.” ’ ” 

Emily changed her position, bending eagerly for- 
ward with the color deepening in her cheek, and 
the smile Grace loved brightening and softening 
her face. The Lord had become so real to her. 

“ ‘It is further of some importance in a matter 
like this, that the earliest of the Christian writers 
who lived at the time when any traditions that 
existed as to the person of the Lord Jesus were 
comparatively fresh and recent, agree in under- 
standing that the humiliation of Christ extended 
to his personal appearance ; and, indeed, we find 
this used by the early adversaries of Christianity 
as an argument against the Divinity of Christ. 
But after the three centuries, this opinion grad- 
ually went out, and the notion came to be univer- 
sally entertained, that Jesus was distinguished 
above men by the perfect beauty of his person. 
The Jewish commentators saw the advantage this 
gave them ; and one of the most eminent of their 
number (Arbarbanel) astutely argues that Jesus 
of Nazareth could not be the one prophecied of by 


232 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


Isaiah, seeing that they assigned to him this emi- 
nence of beauty, whereas the prophet declared the 
direct contrary of the subject of his prophecy. 

‘ Perhaps the right understanding of this matter 
would be to consider that the person of our Lord 
was in no way distinguished for that mundane 
beauty which is always rare among men ; but that 
he was not uncomely, save when, as “ a man of 
sorrows and acquainted with grief” — when leading 
a life of travel, hardship and privation ; when 
grieving at the hardness of men’s hearts ; and 
when, after 

“ Cold mountains and the midnight air 
Witnessed the fervor of his prayer,” 

he became haggard and care-worn, wan and wasted, 
affording visible evidence of the weight of that 
great burden, which, for man’s sake, he had con- 
sented to bear. 

‘ But as we see among men that the power of 
soul, of mind, the expression of goodness, of 
greatness, of holy hope, irradiates, refines, exalts 
and imparts an unutterable charm to countenances 
far more ordinary than can be supposed to have 
belonged to the Saviour, how much more must the 
fact and consciousness of Divinity in him have 
shone forth in his eyes, have given intense express- 


EMILY^S QUESTION AND ANSWER. 233 

ion to his countenance and commanding power to 
his words, diffusing about his person and his man- 
ner something more than the beauty which dwells 
in flesh, or even than that which the soul can 
impart to the human countenance — something 
unseen before on earth in man or angel ! Even in 
man, the conscious possession of power willingly 
restrained, of glory consentingly obscured, will 
impart an indescribable grandeur to the counte- 
nance and demeanor. 

‘ What was this, then, in him who was the very 
King of Glory, for whose triumphal entry heaven 
longed to open its everlasting gates, and whose 
power was still such, that not only would “ twelve 
legions of angels” have gathered around him at 
his asking, but whose word would have sufficed to 
shake the fabric of the universe?’” 


XV. 


LINEN. 

Grace went back to her writing and Emily took 
np her sewing ; neither cared to speak for some 
time. Emily was the first to speak ; she said she 
was always the first to speak. 

“ Mrs. Maxim, will you mind telling me what 
you are writing about ? ” 

“ I hope to finish two Talks to-day ; Dr. Atwater 
likes ' to have them a long time ahead of time : 
Living Inside One^s Self^ and Living Outside One^s 
Selfr 

“ How interesting they will be ! ” 

“ I hope they will help rouse some girl who 
needs rousing, as I did one to-be-remembered year 
of my school life. Even as a woman I have fallen 
into living inside myself. I do not think you ever 
will.” 

“ Why ? ” asked the girl, interestedly. She had 
never had any one to talk to her about herself — 
excepting Ben, and he never found any fault in 
her. “ Am I not deep enough ? ” 

( 234 ) 




LINEIT. 


235 


“You are not deep — that wQ.y. Did you think 
I was speaking of some lack in you? Outside of 
yourself is too much to you to allow you to live 
inside of yourself.” 

“ And the inside isn’t enough to hold any rivalry. 

I have been such a happy girl, everybody has been 
so good to me — I haven’t missed anything.” The 
next interruption was a quick, “ O Mrs. Maxim I ” 
followed by a quick and penitent, “ oh, do excuse 
me!” 

“ I must rest my eyes awhile. What should I 
do if my eyes should resent this constant strain ? ” 

Grace laid aside her papers and pushed a chair 
nearer Emily, resting her hand on the arm of 
Emily’s chair while she talked. 

“ I was wondering what Dearie is dressed in 
now. She was particular about her dress, and she 
always wanted me to look very nice. I am not 
deep enough or good enough to think about the 
holiness and wisdom up there where she is ; I have ^ 
to think about outside things a little while longer.” 

“ That is a good beginning ; it is a good, healthy 
way to get inside.” 

“ People always talk to me about the outside of 
things, excepting you and Ben — sometimes, the 
real inside nobody seems to think I have grown up 


236 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


to, and I have been up to it a long time if they 
only knew. My guardian used to write to me at 
school and send me books ; he was very good, but 
I like a voice and talk — as you do in Sunday-school. 
I never knew till I saw you that anybody knew 
about these things — only in books. And Nette 
and Janet say so, too. We wonder how you ever 
got to do it, and how you learned it.” 

Grace laughed, but the tribute was very grateful. 

“ Talking about the inside of things isn’t like 
living inside one’s self, is it?” asked Emily. 

“ Some believe that the one leads to the other ; 
that if girls love to think and read about the heart 
of things they will grow careless of the outside 
life — morbid, ungirlish, useless for the world’s 
uses — but the world and the things in it are a 
great deal to me ; living at the heart of things 
brings not the sweetness of everything. I could 
not live any other way. Somehow people always 
do talk to me about the inside of things ; from the 
outside to the inside is the easiest transition possi- 
ble — to me. 

“ I was glad Dr. Atwater preached for us Sun- 
day ; I wish he would consent oftener. When he 
took for his text Peter tarrying many days at 
Joppa, what an outside thing that seemed to be ! 


LINEN. 


237 


“ But, oh, how he did bring inside things out of 
it ! That is what the outside is for ; to get at the 
inside. If there were no such outside thing as 
bread, w^hat would, ‘Give us this day our daily 
bread,’ mean to us ? What would be the need of 
it ? It has been so much to me ; I have lived on 
it. From what God has made, the things outside 
of themselves, even the heathen, without revela- 
tion, may learn that God is, and many things about 
him. Now, what do you think Greatgrandmother’s 
dress is made of ? ” 

She was alive then, as much alive as she was ! 
And wearing a dress ! What could it be made of ? 

“ Something pure, bright — and white, I know.” 

iThe Bible from which Emily had read was at 
hand ; Grace opened it and read : 

“ ‘ The marriage of the Lamb is come, and his 
wife hath made herself ready; and to her was 
granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, 
clean and white.’ ” 

“ Oh, I am so glad it is linen ! She loved linen 
better than silk, or anything. She told me over 
and over again about her linen that I was to have, 
and about spinning flax, and about sprinkling linen 
to make it pure and white. Janet painted a Christ- 
mas card for her once, when she could see — stalks 


238 FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 

of flax, slender stems and delicate blue flowers ; 
she liked it so. I’ll show it to you. She often 
asked me if it were put away safe. Flax grows 
everywhere, doesn’t it? lam glad linen is made 
out of something that grows everywhere, for ever}*- 
body can have some linen.” 

“ But think of the labor to make the flax into 
linen.” 

“ I know that, but how it pays ! How linen 
lasts ! ” 

“ And it is put to such beautiful uses. The body 
of Jesus was wrapped in linen.” 

Silence fell for a moment between the two who 
“ feared the Lord and that thought upon his 
name ; ” these two spoke often one to another ; 
may we not believe that “ the Lord harkened and 
heard,” and for them that “ book of remembrance 
was written before him?” 

“ And they shall be mine,” is the promise. 

“ How are we flax ? ” asked Emily. 

“ Flax is the natural growth; our natural growth 
is flax. What you would have been but for grace 
is the flax of you ! The labor given to the flax 
makes linen ; the grace of God given to you makes 
you pure, strong, clean, fit for his use. 

“ Think of the work to be done in the flax ; the 


LINEN. 


239 


coarse tow and woody particles have to be removed, 
the straw has to be broken and cleaned, each sepa- 
rate wisp has to be twisted and wound — and all 
this before even the process of spinning begins. 

“ And after the linen is made there is coarse and 
fine linen, and bleached and unbleached — there is 
some difference between the sail of a ship and a 
lady’s pocket handkerchief. 

“ The quality of flax makes the difference, and 
the labor spent upon it. There is a great difference 
in the natural quality of people — not that God can- 
not do anything he will with anybody, but he does 
seem to take people as they are born into the world ; 
he can make an artist of Nette, but it would be 
rather hard to make an artist of Joseph, who sees 
no difference between pink and blue. It seems 
wise to him to spend much more labor upon some 
than upon others ; some are born with a capacity 
for discipline (which somebody calls genius). That 
is all the genius I have ; sometimes I think I have 
no other gift than a capacity for growing. No 
girl would be discouraged utterly if she could 
have seen the flax of me ; I would love to be the 
finest of the linen, but I am content to be coarse 
ship’s canvas if that is the Lord’s wise way of 
putting me to service.” 


240 


FEOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


I wouldn’t like to be such coarse stuff.” 

“Would you rather stay flax?” 

“ I am only the blossom so far — ^it’s pretty, any- 
way. Do we do any of the work?” her tone 
changing to earnestness. 

wife hath made herself ready ^ All the 
saints are the Bride of the Lamb ; she made her- 
self ready ; did she work her own flax into thread, 
and spin her own fair and white linen ? ” 

“ Dearie couldn’t ! Her finest and whitest linen 
would never do for her dress up there.” 

“ The very next words are : ‘ and to her was 
granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, 
clean and white.’ The clean and white linen is a 
grant, a gift ; something for which she has not 
labored nor paid for by any kind of return. And 
yet she certainly does make herself ready. 

“ Perhaps all she has to do is to put it on,” said 
Emily ; “ perhaps she only accepts it and wears it.” 

“ Gratefully and in humility, knowing that it is 
granted for love’s sake.” 

“But I never could know when I was ready 
enough to have it ; I wouldn’t dare to take it ; I 
might soil it and spoil it.” 

“ He knows when we are ready ; even that does 


LINEN, 


241 


not depend upon us. Do you know when you are 
ready to be forgiven ? 

“ Yes ; I know,” with a quick reddening of the 
eyelids. 

“ How much do you do toward that ? ” 

“ I am so sorry, that is all.” 

“And he makes you so sorry. You see the 
making ready is so little of ourselves, so little that 
we do. God works in us every sinful and every 
repentant moment ; while we are sinning he is 
working in us, getting the best he can for us out 
of the sin — in ourselves we are as powerless as the 
flax. What does that do ? ” 

“ It grower said Emily, readily. 

“ What makes it grow ? ” 

“ Yes, I see ; its nourishment comes from the air 
and the earth, and God made the seed in the first 
place. Well, if I am like that ! ” 

“ Aren’t you ? ” 

“ But I can will and flax cannot.” 

“ Do you remember this? ‘ It is God that work- 
eth in you both to will and to do of his good pleas- 
ure.’ You do not even will of yourself any more 
than the flax grows of itself ; God’s natural causes 
make the flax grow ; his spiritual causes make you 
16 


242 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


grow. And then, with that will in us, how can we 
but do of his good pleasure ? ” 

Emily thought this over before she spoke again ; 
would she ever be afraid of soiling and spoiling 
her linen if he gave her the will to do his good 
pleasure ? 

Not only then, but now. 

“ This linen signifies something,” were Grace’s 
next words. 

“Yes; purity.” 

“ Their own purity.” 

“ Why, yes ” ; speaking slowly, as if the words 
held new and fuller meaning, “they are forgiven; 
they are purified.” 

“‘For the fine linen is the righteousness of 
saints,’ ” quoted Grace, looking down at the open 
book in her lap. 

“ Yes ; that is what I meant.” 

“ What is the righteousness of saints ? ” 

After some meditation, Emily could think of no 
satisfying answer ; was it their own good deeds? 

“ I am not sure, unless it is their goodness.” 

“ Then you think Greatgrandmother is clothed 
in her own goodness. Was she lovely enough for 
that?” 

“ No — o. She was lovely to me, and she loved 


LINEN. 


243 


me ; but I never thought she was saintly. But 
‘ the righteousness of saints ’ sounds as if it meant 
that. I want Dearie to have something lovelier to 
be dressed in.” 

“ How many lovely things does one do one’s 
self?” asked Grace, thinking of her own unlovely 
girlhood. 

“ Didn’t you give that portrait away yourself? ” 
inquired Emily, jealously, with a glance toward 
that heart-aching place over the mantel. 

“Did I?” 

“ Why, yes.” 

“ I told you how I rebelled, and how I was 
brought to be willing.” 

“ But you did do it ; you were willing at last,” 
persisted her admirer, still jealous for Grace to have 
some share in the self-sacrifice. 

“ Repentance made me willing. Had I not been 
so penitent, thinking of Mary’s hard life and my 
wilfulness and pride making it harder — just think, 
I told her that jier father belonged to me more than 
to her — had it not been for that sweetest repent- 
ance, I never could have been willing. See how 
penitence and repentance make us ready to be 
moved to will his good pleasure. And repentance 
is from him.” 


244 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Then I must give up thinking you are as lovely 
and forgiving as you can be! And I will not, 
because you are ! ” 

“ Oh, yes ! I am — if I am made so. And I do 
desire to be made so. The linen is not ashamed 
of the flax ; but the true linen would glory in the 
workmanship that wrought beauty and fitness out 
of such unpromising material.” 

“ It isn’t unpromising to the workman who 
understands.” 

“ No,” said Grace, giving fullest meaning to 
Emily’s reply. 

“Now, I see ; the righteousness of saints is Ms 
righteousness just as the glory of the linen belongs 
to the workman and not to the flax. What a per- 
fect, perfect dress my darling old Dearie has ! ” 

“ And how willing the Bride is to cast aside her 
own garment of righteousness for such a glorious 
exchange. His righteousness begins its work while 
we are yet sinners — it is so watchful, so wise ; 
never hurrying on and slighting its work. How 
he waits for us ! It has taken me so long to be 
willing; you are not such stubborn material. I 
rebel even now.” 

“And you get all the sweeter for it, don’t you?” 


LINEN. 


245 


“ I get all the humbler/’ said Grace, with a little 
laugh. 

“ I wish we could begin to wear the linen here,” 
almost sighed Emily. 

“ I think we do.” 

A few moments later Emily passed through the 
room in which Greatgrandmother died, for the first 
time without an averted face and a shiver. The 
last dress she had worn, some plain, dark stuff, was 
hanging on a nail at the head of the bed ; she went 
to it and touched it, then she hid her face in it and 
kissed it. It was worth while to wear coarse dark 
stuff for nearly a hundred years for the sake of the 
fine linen forever and ever ! And what a lovely 
place this earth was, to be made ready in ! But 
every girl did not have her lovely time ! Matilda’s 
voice broke in upon her reverie ; she lifted her head 
from the brown folds. 

“ Miss Emily, rice is nice with chickens and 
onions.” 

Matilda stood in the doorway, giving, rather than 
awaiting, the o'rder for dinner. 

“ Oh ! yes ; do anything you like, Matilda ; you 
need never ask me. When I want anything 
especial I’ll tell you.” 

“ I do know her ways better than you do,” mut- 


246 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


tered Matilda, moving away ; “ but what kind of 
a housekeeper will you make ? ” 

“ That’s true,” said the girl to herself ; “ I’ll study 
housekeeping. Ben takes all that for granted.” 


XVI. 


THE BLESSING OF SATUEDAY. 

Grace felt hurried with her writing that after- 
noon ; she had given an hour of her writing time 
to Emily that morning, and she had promised to 
call this evening upon one of her Sunday class who 
had an invalid mother ; as her pen paused while 
she looked up a passage in the Bible, Jessie came 
to her door, pushed it open without knocking, 
and announcing ; “ Here she is,” skipped away. 

“ Excuse me for troubling you,” entreated a 
timid voice. 

In the second before she replied Grace had time 
to think : “ Well, the Lord knows what my work 
is better than I do,” and her cordial greeting 
reassured the tall, hesitating girl who stood within 
the door. 

“ The child brought me in,” excused the relieved 
voice. 

“ The child was quite right. Miss Durgin ; sit 
down, please, till I finish a thought I was writing — 
I may not catch it again.” 


( 247 ) 


248 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


The chair in which Emily had been sitting was 
still at the open window ; with more ease in her 
manner and a change to content in her face, Miss 
Durgin sat down. It was a queer room, with its 
old-fashioned and new-fashioned furniture ; the lady 
at the table was a part of its new fashion ; her 
light gray flannel, trimmed with narrow,, black 
braid, was made in one of the latest styles of 
simple wear ; her hair was arranged as all the girls 
wore their hair ; that collar-button was certainly a 
diamond, and the two rings upon her finger — one 
was massive, the other magnificent. And yet, she 
taught those girls Sunday afternoons ; Nette Ferris 
“ worked out,” and some of the others worked in 
the mill, and more than that, the seven mill girls 
had spent a holiday with her. People wondered 
and questioned, admired, stood aloof and certainly 
did not understand this unobtrusive, quiet-working, 
elegant stranger. The adjectives were all in Miss 
Durgin’s mind as she studied face, dress, attitude. 

“ Now I am ready,” said Grace in a welcoming 
tone, wiping her pen ; “ I happened to think of 
something new just as you entered, and I was 
afraid of losing it exactly as it came to me. A 
thought that helps me may help some one like 
me, so I wanted to save it.” 


THE BLESSING OF SATURDAY. 


249 


“ That is what I came for ; I knew you would un- 
derstand and let me. My class is next to yours — I 
suppose you are doing Sunday-school work now — 
and I can’t help seeing how your girls huddle around 
you, and never take their eyes off you, and they 
talk and ask questions ; and mine might as well be 
mummies for all the life they show, except to be 
restless, and giggle, and whisper, and I tjold mother 
I wouldn’t stand it another Sunday — I would write 
to Dr. Atwater this week and tell him to get an- 
other teacher. He doesn’t approve of me, anyway. 
He doesn’t come home through the week very often, 
and I would be afraid to talk to him if I could see 
him ; mother said I must not be in haste, and as I 
was dressing to go out this afternoon, she suggested 
I should come and ask you to help me. I had told 
her about those girls. Three teachers have given 
up that class in a year, and I know Dr. Atwater 
was delighted to find somebody now to take them. 
Of course Miss Deane went into it because you 
are there, and, to tell you the humiliating truth, 
two of my girls have asked Dr. Atwater if they 
might leave me and go to you.” 

“ When did you study your lesson? ” was Grace’s 
seeming pointless question as she gave the last 
touch to her pile of papers. 


250 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


“ I do not believe any of the teachers study 
harder than I do,” exclaimed Miss Durgin, looking 
aggrieved ; “ I studied the last lesson particularly 
hard ; I had it all fresh in my mind ; I studied 
before dinner as soon as I got home from church, 
and after dinner until I had to hurry off to Sun- 
day-school ; I was half frantic in my hurry, and 
run over my ‘ helps ’ as if my life depended upon 
it.” 

“ Did you study it the day before?” asked Grace, 
with as little suggestion in her voice as possible. 

“ Saturday ! No ; I was too busy. You see I 
teach in the public school, and my Saturdays are 
always busy days ; I always have to leave my les- 
son till Sunday morning or noon.” 

“ You haven’t learned the lesson of Saturday, I 
see,” said Grace, with a smile. 

“ The lesson of Saturday ! ” Miss Durgin re- 
peated, uncomprehendingly ; “ has it anything to 
do with Sunday ? ” 

“ It has a great deal to do with Sunday, and with 
me Sunda}^ afternoon is a great part of Sunday. 
Those girls are doing more for me than I ever can 
do for them.” 

(Just here a thought came to Grace ; she would 


THE BLESSING OF SATUBBAY, 251 

write an article and call it : “ What our Classes do 
for Us.”) 

“ I haven’t an idea what you mean about Satur- 
day — the lesson of Saturday ; you see I am stupid, 
if I do teach girls through the week. Somehow I 
cannot put the same vim into the Sunday-school 
lesson.” 

“ I wonder if I can tell you ; I told the girls 
about it when four of them said they did not look 
at their lesson until after dinner on Sunday ; but I 
did not think there was a lesson in it for teachers 
as well as scholars.” 

“ Mrs. Maxim, excuse me again, but how do you 
find out lessons P ” 

“ I have been finding out all my life how silly 
and ignorant I am ; there is only one thing to do : 
go to the Master for his lesson. He has something 
to teach us about everything. I think I have lived 
through all the lessons I give to others. Excuse 
me if I talk too simply ; I haven’t learned to be 
anything beside plain. I do not know how to talk 
to teachers.” 

Tears of vexation stood in Miss Durgin’s eyes ; 
was she a teacher ? 

“ I am one of the stupid teachers, and Bella 
Henshaw is another; we were out shopping to- 


252 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


gether and making calls, Saturday, and when she 
left me she said ; ‘ Oh, dear I Sarah ; there’s my 
class to-morrow ! ’ And I laughed and said ; ‘ Oh, 
dear ! Bella ; there’s mine ! ’ ” 

Miss Durgin laughed uneasily with those grave 
eyes looking into hers. 

“ You remember that the Lord said to the chil- 
dren in the wilderness: ‘I will rain bread from 
Heaven for you ? ’” 

“Oh! yes,” was the answer, while she wondered 
what that had to do with the lesson of Saturday. 

“ They took it from the Lord’s hand although 
they picked it up from the ground, as certainly 
from his hand as did the Twelve after the Lord 
blessed and broke those five loaves, and the Twelve 
went around and fed those waiting, hungry people. 

“ That is what you and I do every Sunday ; that 
is what we are called to do whether we do it or 
not ; we are called to feed hungry-minded and 
hungry-hearted girls (girls are hungrier than we 
think) with the bread the Lord has fed us with. 

“ If he has not fed us, we have nothing to give 
them ; if he has fed us, he has fed us for their 
sakes as truly as for our own.” 

“ Yes,” was the half-comprehending assent. 

“ Do you remember what the Israelites were 


THE BLESSING OF SATUBBAT, 253 

commanded to do on Saturday? It was their 
sixth day ; we call it Saturday.” 

‘‘ I do not remember that it was anything differ- 
ent from any other day ; I am so ashamed of my- 
self. I do not know much about the Bible ; it 
seems to me a great deal harder than my week-day 
lessons.” 

“ The command was this : ‘ On the sixth day 
they shall prepare what they bring in ; and it shall 
be twice as much as they gather daily.’ You know 
why.” 

“Oh, of course,” relieved that she did know 
this, ‘^none fell on ther Sabbath; the Lord would 
not have them work on Sunday ! ” 

“ And so urgent was he for the rest upon the 
Sabbath that he caused twice as much to fall on the 
sixth day, so _that they would have sufficient for 
the next day ; they had to work twice as hard on 
Saturday to have enough on Sunday ; and it was 
not only to pick it up, but to prepare what they 
bring in. Saturday was a busy day to those fathers 
and mothers who had many to provide for on Sun- 
day. No matter what the work or play of Satur- 
day, Sunday must be provided for, or somebody 
must go hungry.” 

Miss Durgin thought, but could not bring herself 


254 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


to speak it : “ My girls went away hungry because 
of my busy Saturday.” 

“ Some of the people did go out to gather on 
Sunday and found none ; I wonder if they felt 
provoked, or rebuked and ashamed? ” 

“ I pity them if they felt as I did last Sunday,” 
said Miss Durgin, with a laugh; “I know Dr. 
Atwater notices everything.” 

“ See what a beautiful promise it is.” 

Her open Bible was half concealed by a mass of 
papers ; she pushed them aside, and taking it into 
her hand turned the leaves. 

Miss Durgin thought she touched it as if she 
loved its very cover ; she had always thought it 
ostentatious to have an open Bible around, but the 
Bible seemed as much a part of this woman as her 
dress dr her eyes. 

• “ ‘ See,’ ” read Grace, “ ‘ for that the Lord hath 
given you the Sabbath; therefore he giveth you 
on the sixth day the bread of two daj^s.’ 

“ Daily bread for every day, and twice the daily 
bread for Saturdays, because — and he gives this as 
a reason for his double, bountiful providing — ‘ the 
Lord hath given you the Sabbath.’ 

“ Perhaps I should say the blessing of Saturday, 


THE BLESSING OF SATURDAY, 255 

rather than the lesson of Saturday. We miss some- 
thing if we miss the blessing of Saturday. 

“ I wish the tired, overworked mothers all over 
the land could think of busy Saturday as a bless- 
ing — a blessing that Sunday brings with it ; the 
day on which God provides double for her little 
ones. And if he give double work surely he will 
give double strength.” 

(She made mental note of another title : “ The 
Blessing of Saturday.”) 

“ Why, Mrs. Maxim, you make Saturday as much 
a blessing as Sunday.” 

“ I do not make it anything, dear ; God has 
made it. Sunday is more blessed because of Sat- 
urday’s work; and more hurried, unrestful and 
disappointing because of unfaithful Saturdays. 
God means us to keep his Saturday as well as his 
Sunday.” 

Miss Durgin laughed again ; the idea of “ keep- 
ing ” Saturday was very comical. 

“When we break the law of Saturday, we find 
it very difficult to keep the law of Sunday.” 

“ I begin to see that.” 

“ You make hard work of Sunday ; you cannot 
find the manna in your hurry, and then you ac- 
knowledge your hard work is a miserable failure.” 


256 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Do you think I should resign ? ” asked Miss 
Durgin, not knowing what reply she expected or 
desired. 

“ Most certainly,” said Grace, promptly, “unless 
you can take time to pick up and prepare your 
lesson before Sunday.” 

“ But Saturday is my only day out of school,” 
she said, self-excusingly, thinking that Mrs. Maxim 
was rich, and did not understand a girl who worked 
hard for six hundred dollars a year. 

“And Sunday is the only day of your girls in 
Sunday-school.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Perhaps you are not called to teach ; be sure • 
of that, first of all.” 

“ How can I be sure ? ” 

“ You may be sure you are not if the Lord has 
not given you time to prepare your lesson,” was 
the emphatic reply. 

“You have cornered me. To-day is Saturday, 
and I haven’t looked at it yet. Would you let me 
come Saturday afternoons and learn how to study 
it with you ? Bella would be glad to come, too. 
We are both teachers in day school, but we haven’t 
learned how to study or teach our Sunday lesson. 


THE BLESSING OF SATUBDAY, 


257 


I know it is asking a great deal,” she added, 
watching the changes in Grace’s expressive eyes. 

“ Perhaps that is what Saturday afternoon is for ! 
Thank you for helping me to find it. Can you 
stay to-day?” she inquired, cordially; “I am 
ready to begin.” 

“ I don’t know. I had promised Bella — but, I 
know ! I will go for her, do our errand together, 
and both come back, if you will be so very, very 
kind,” said Miss Durgin. “I did not expect an 
ending like this to my trouble.” 

“But the fault is all your own; you told me 
Saturday was your blessing, and I can’t help 
wanting to share it.” 

She arose as she spoke ; Grace arose also, and 
took her hand. 

“ I am very glad you came,” she said, with her 
sympathetic voice. 

The girls said Mrs. Maxim never “gushed,” but 
she made you feel how she cared for you. 

“ So am I,” giving her a quick kiss ; “ I don’t 
see how your girls can help loving you.” 


XVII. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 

I DO not know that I can in any better way give 
you a clear idea of her work, and her method of 
writing, than in copying from the pages of her 
Thought Book for the month of October. 

In some way she expected to find use for every 
fact, thought, and suggestion ; she depended upon 
it for the articles she was writing for Mr. Atwater; 
at a hint from him she had sent stories and poems 
to several papers and magazines ; seven were ac- 
cepted, two declined with thanks, but afterward 
accepted with thanks by a magazine for children. 
She wrote to Auntie Holbrook that her success 
filled her with wonderment, gratitude, and delight. 

“ If, as the Scotch say, an idle brain is the devil’s 
workshop, you may be assured that he has no work- 
shop in the top of my head,” she wrote to Mr. At- 
water the morning she received from him a dozen 
pictures to illustrate with stories. 

The October jottings covered many pages. 

“ An old teacher of education has given this 
( 258 ) 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


259 


rule : ‘ When your hands have nothing to do, do 
nothing with them ; let them hang.’ 

“A German professor spent twenty years in 
studying the habits and character of a certain 
snail, and learned this interesting fact concerning 
it: On the Pacific coast of America, where it is 
found in great abundance, it is preyed upon by a 
certain fish which is found in the Pacific ocean ; 
as an aid in escaping from its formidable enemy it 
has been provided with an eye on the back of its 
head. 

“ The same snail is found on the Atlantic coast, 
exactly like its far western brother in every par- 
ticular excepting that it has no posterior eye. And 
the reason for this is that it has no corresponding 
fish to prey upon it in the Atlantic ocean. 

“ (Give this to my girls in illustration of the truth 
that God fits them for the home he has placed them 
in. Tell Nette Ferris it was worth the careful 
study of twenty years to learn this watchful and 
adapting care of God over this one of his small 
creatures. Of how much more worth is she ? If 
God gave her love and talent for drawing, he will 
put her where she can make something of it. If 
that eye is in her head it is for some purpose). 


260 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


“ How do I know I have not faith ? 

“ What a question ! 

“ I know^my blood is bad by the state of my 
skin ; so I know my unbelief is bad because of the 
external evidences — worry, overwork, impatience 
under interruptions, burden bearing, care-taking. 

“ ‘ The truth is,’ said one of my girls, ‘ I am 
afraid to pray for faith, for if I get it I am afraid 
of some dreadful, heart-breaking trial to try it.’ 

“ ‘ If you should pray for money and get it,’ I 
asked, ‘ would you be afraid that you would have 
to buy things and spend it ? ’ 

“ ‘ Why, no ; that is what I want money for,'* 

“ ‘ And that is what you want faith for ! To know 
God, to be near him, to trust him, so that your love 
and endurance may stand any weight he thinks 
best to press upon it.’ 

“ ‘ If you have faith to bear the trial you will find 
there is very little trial to bear. If the trial be ill- 
ness, he will comfort you so in it that you will be 
glad of the pain because of his presence and his 
comfort ; if it be the death of a friend, oh ! the 
comfort that comes when you go with the dear one 
into his very presence ; if it be the loss of a friend 
through your fault or his, he will teach you for- 
bearance, and patience, and the wisdom of loving; 


OCTOBER FRUITS, 


261 


if it be the loss of property, so that you have to 
support yourself, it must be that he needs from you 
some work in his world that prosperity and love of 
ease kept you from doing ; if it be a withholding 
wait, hop^, pray ; have faith, do your best, and do 
not let it be a withholding of himself, because of 
your rebellion.’ 

“ Pharaoh was moved to do God’s will in spite 
of his hardened heart ; with my softened heart 
how much more will he permit me to do it, and 
show me how to do it ! 

“John Wesley lived on twenty-eight pounds 
when his income was thirty pounds ; he still lived 
on twenty-eight pounds when his income was one 
hundred and twenty pounds. 

“ The more I have the more I wish to give away. 
Sad, sad, sad as it is, I have no one to save for. 

“ Perhaps the Lord will say to me in heaven : 
‘ Some of the prayers you prayed on earth are 
being answered down there now.’ 

“ How can I do the will of God if I do not love 
it ? That is half-hearted work ; and if I love it, I 


262 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


am not so anxious about doing it, for he cares most 
of all I love it. He can do his work himself with- 
out me ; but he cannot love it in me without me. 
So I know that he cannot (because he will not) do 
without me. ^ 

“ ‘ Oh, dear ! ’ cried Miss Durgin, in her charac- 
teristic fashion, with fretful impatience ; ‘ I so 
little.’ / 

“ And then I had to tell her that fruit-bearing 
consists in something beside doing ; Ihe fruits of 
the spirit are love, joy, peace, etc. 

“ The Lord groups hearing, understanding, and 
fruit-bearing together ; perhaps she must bear a 
little more, and understand a little more, before 
she can do even a little more. 

“ I have been so filled with doing of late that I 
must hear more, and understand more, before I can 
give out. 

“ Until it is poured in, how can I pour out ? 

“ One grain of wheat in five years produced more 
than could be drilled into fifteen acres. 

“ Lord, make me a grain of wheat. 

“ Science constructs a scale so finely adjusted 
that it turns at the falling upon it of a sunbeam. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 263 

“ By him actions are weighed ; how finely is his 
scale adjusted ! 

“‘Have you anything laid up for old age?’ I 
inquired of an aged man to-day. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ was the quick answer, ‘ I have my 
children laid up.’ 

“ I had spoken to Mrs. Atwater about the Old 
Man’s Home for him, but surely his children are 
the best Old Man’s Home for any old man. 

“ Peter cast his fisher’s coat about him before he 
swam to Christ. I love him for that. 

“ ‘ If I cannot take thought for my life, what 
shall I take thought about?’ Nette’s mistress, old 
Betsey Gunn, asked me to-day ; ‘ I must think 
about something.’ 

“ ‘ Think about Christ’s life on earth ; have you 
thought all about that ? ’ 

“ ‘ I have read it times enough,’ she answered, 
tartly. 

“ ‘ When you are weary and sit down to rest, do 
you think that he sat down to rest when he was 
tired with a long walk ? Do you think at night 
how he slept on a pillow when he was so tired that 


264 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


the dreadful sound of wind and water did not wake 
him up ? Do you remember that he said he had 
no house of his own ? And women ministered to 
him because he had need of such ministering.’ 

“ (She had just told me that she must send Nette 
away and do her own work, because she has lost 
some part of her small annuity. If Nette do 
leave her, I shall ask Auntie Holbrook to send 
for her. That home will be a home for Nette to 
grow in, and there’s a studio in Stapleton, four 
miles away.) 

“ If Rebekah did any good thing after the deceit 
of that dreadful day, no one knows it ; I hope she 
was very loving to her deceived, blind old husband 
and repentant, defrauded son ; she had no one 
else ; she did not love Esau’s wife, and the son 
who trusted her, and whom she loved, had been 
sent away from her. 

“ Esau’s tears mean something to me. 

“ ‘ Hast thou but one blessing, my father? Bless 
me, even me, also, O my father.’ 

“If that cry had only been to the Father in 
heaven ! 

“ (Who knows that he did not cry out to him, 
too ?) 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


265 


“ It has not entered into the heart of man the 
things that God has prepared for them that love 
him ; prepared for them to possess now, for have 
we not the promise of the life that now is ? If we 
love him more shall we not have more of those 
prepared good things ? 

“ ‘ I had fainted unless I had believed.’ 

“ O David, did faith keep you from fainting, too ? 

“ ‘ All the doors that lead inward to the secret 
place of the Most High are doors outward ; not of 
self, not of smallness, not of wrong.’ 

“ ‘ No man is better than his secret thoughts.’ 

“ Our secret thoughts are our best and our 
worst ; we are worse and better than anybody 
knows. 

“ ‘ Only twent^^-six and one half lives, each bC' 
ginning at the conclusion of its predecessor, take 
us back to the presence of the dear Master.’ 

‘ “ (That brought a grave look into twenty pairs 
of eyes to-day.) 

“ My class numbers twenty-five on register. 

“ At one time he laid his hand upon a ‘ few ’ sick 


266 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


folk and healed them ; he could do no mighty work 
in that place ‘ save ’ this. 

“ The help and comfort to me is that those who 
mockingly asked, ‘Is not this the carpenter?’ did 
not hinder these ‘few’ from being healed. 

“ No matter what others say or think, let us be 
of the ‘ few,’ and hold on to him : the Carpenter, 
the Healer, the Saviour of men. 

“ In some places ‘ many ’ were healed ; there was 
no sufficient unbelief to make it a ‘ few.’ 

“ Is it hard to believe ? Oh, how much harder 
not to believe ! 

“ I must copy this Arabic proverb for somebody • 

“ ‘ Men are four : 

“ ‘ He who knows not, and knows not he knows 
not. 

“ ‘ He is a fool ; shun him. 

“ ‘ He who knows not, and knows he knows not. 

“ ‘ He is simple ; teach him. 

“ ‘ He who knows, and knows not he knows. 

“ ‘ He is asleep ; wake him. ^ 

“ ‘ He who knows, and knows he knows. 

“ ‘ He is wise ; follow him.’ 


“I do not think Nette’s drawing will be an 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


267 


accomplishment that’ accomplishes nothing. She 
knows about Mrs. Milliken and her studio, and is 
wild to go to Auntie Holbrook. When a child six 
years old she would spend two hours, ‘ waste two 
hours,’ over one picture, her mother told me 
yesterday. 

“(I called to see her about Nette; she has a 
large, pleasant home on a farm, but Nette will not 
stay at home with her quick-tempered stepfather.) 

“ She said she had many a time had to box her 
ears to get her away from her bit of brown paper 
and half a lead pencil. 

“ ‘ She has no talent,’ she said, scornfully ; ‘ why, 
when she was about four years old I found her 
drawing a man’s side face out of a book, and she 
put two ears on. Of course, there was but one in 
the picture, but she said men had two ears. I told 
her she was a stupid, but her father (he was kind 
of sentimental) said it showed she had observation. 
Observation ! She never dusted in the corners ! 
That’s the kind of observation I admire to see.’ 

“ Poor Nette ! Miss Betsey Gunn is not scorn- 
ful ; she has been kind to Nette, who seems to be 
motherless, after a fashion some mothers have. 

“ (She dusts in the corners now ; Miss Betsey 
has taught her good housekeeping. Nette’s eyes 


268 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


twinkled when I told her that perhaps she had to 
learn to dust in the corners first.) ^ 

“After his door post was sprinkled with the 
blood that night of the passover, might the Israel- 
ite go forth anywhere he pleased ? 

“ No ; he must stay behind the blood. 

“After the blood of Christ has sprinkled our 
hearts, may we go anywhere we please, and do 
whatever we please ? 

“ No ; we must keep his commandments. 

“ ‘ Must I go through a great deal before I get 
faith?’ Nette asked me. 

“ You must ‘ go through ’ believing that God is^ 
and that he gives to all who diligently seek him. 

“ And seeking him is a very different matter from 
seeking the many good things he has to give. Oh, 
how often I have to say that to my girls — and to 
myself ! 

“We pray for God to bless our trials to us ; do 
we not as truly need his blessing upon our happi- 
ness ? 

“ How that frightens me : I will curse your bless- 
ings. Lord, bless my blessings. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


269 


“ God did not design that marriage should be 
woman’s first rate happiness ; I believed that he 
did until my disappointed (bitterly disappointed) 
marriage taught me (rather God taught me through 
it) that even a happy marriage must not be a 
woman’s choicest happiness; that must be found 
in delight in God himself. Not that I would have 
a girl become a nun and believe herself to be the 
bride of Christ— that is one extreme ; the view 
some novelists take of woman’s happiness in her 
husband is the other extreme. 

“ Love Christ best and your husband second, 
and your happiness rests on a sure foundation. 

“ (I said this to Miss Durgin, who has just be- 
come engaged, and exhibited her diamond Satur- 
day afternoon with girlish enjoyment. How well 
I remember the first days in which I wore mine I 
no queen was ever prouder of her coronet. 

“ Seven teachers come to me now Saturday after- 
noons.) 

“ Mr. Atwater says he never saw anything in any 
woman equal my eagerness for what is new. I told 
him I was eager even for a new heavens and a new 
earth. 


270 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN 


“ (How conceited to make a note of that. But 
I shall like to find it here some year afar off.) 

“ His wife says she and I talk about the things 
that last. 

“ They will — the new heavens and the new earth. 

“ ‘ Why do you not counsel him ? ’ I asked Mr. 
Atwater about somebody. 

“ ‘ Because I am not wise enough to be anybody’s 
Providence.’ 

“ There are some queer folks in this town ; one 
is a young man who is husking corn for Joseph^ — 
not only like all babies was he born without teeth, 
but he has never had one, upper or under, since ; 
and he is over thirty. 

“ ‘ Mrs. Maxim, you send us to the Bible for 
everything,’ complained one of my girls. 

‘‘I gave her to think about: ‘They have re- 
jected the word of the Lord, and what wisdom is 
in them ? ’ 

“ Emily complains that she has not any decided 
tastes, and opened her eyes when I told her to 
make tastes for herself ; she has found nothing to 
do with herself since Greatgrandmother was taken 
from her care. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


271 


“We are to read history together, and she is to 
try to make a taste for solid reading. I want to 
help her to do something worth while with herself. 

“ Ben Atwater calls very often ; why should I 
not be satisfied if she make a good wife of herself? 
Ben hopes to become a famous journalist, and 
poor, childish Emily sighs because she does not 
know how to be literary. 

“ (Well, well, I can’t seem to succeed in being 
purely literary, or purely scientific, or purely given 
to exegesis ; girls and their girlish aspirations will 
push themselves in ; it is people I am after, after 
all.) 

“ All girls, I see, as I look over the last pages ; 
how many men or boys do I know? 

“ Mr. Atwater, Ben — who else ? Max Truman ! 

“ John and Harold Maxim I never see or hear 
from — for so many 5^ears my one interest was my 
husband (and my two darling little ones), and 
now my life has no man’s strength in it. 

“ But the Man, Christ Jesus. 

“ ‘ It will be a change for you,’ I said to Miss 
Betsey Gunn, in seeking, to persuade her to give 


272 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


up her little home and go south €o her only- 
brother. 

“ ‘ Yes, a change of worries,’ was her sharp reply. 

That appears to be the only change she knows 
anything about. 

“ Her troubles (some of them) she said were too 
small to pray about ; she was ashamed to tell the 
Lord that the butchet boy had cheated her out of 
twenty-seven cents, and that she shed tears of mor- 
tification about her seat in one of the back pews in 
church. 

“ I told her I thought the Lord is more glad and 
touched when we run to him about such little bits 
of things than when we rush to him in despair as 
our last hope; many people would pray about 
twenty-seven thousand dollars who would not 
think about praying for twenty-seven cents to be 
restored. Who does not cry out, in despair and 
heart-breaking ? 

“ The loving child who lives near him all the 
time ventures to whisper the little things. 

“ (She looked less disturbed, and on the way 
home I stopped and spoke to that butcher boy.) 

“ People to study up : Chrysostom, Jerome, 
Francis of Assisi, Frances de Chantal, Francis of 
'Sales. 


OCTOBER FRUITS, 


273 


“ I know that Arethusa was left a widow in her 
twentieth year, and resolved not to marry again, 
that she might devote her whole life to her boy, 
John Chrysostom. The bishop of Antioch discov- 
ered his genius, instructed and baptized him, and 
gave him a home under his own roof. 

“ This almost broke his mother’s heart ; she 
besought him to think of her, as she had in her 
youth given up all for him ; but carried away with 
ascetic enthusiasm he went into the mountains ; 
for six years he gave himself up to a life of devo- 
tion, studying the scriptures, with prayer, and mor- 
tifying the body to such an extent that his limbs 
became nearly paralyzed ; the urgent solicitations 
of his friends brought him back to Antioch. 

“ (I wonder where his mother was.) 

“ After all he lived through his end is very sad ; 
he was banished to the desert of Pityus ; on foot, 
bare-headed, beneath a burning sun, he was driven 
pitilessly on by his military escort until his strength 
gave out in Cappadocia ; seeing that he could live 
but a little time, he put on a white robe and 
dragged himself a few miles further to somebody’s 
tomb, where he laid himself down to die. 

“ Now I must look up Arethusa. 

18 


274 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


“ She reminds me of St. Augustine’s mother — 
Monica. 

“ It strikes me that a class to study church his- 
tory would be delightful ; Mr. Atwater said in 
Sunday-school that the history of the church is the 
history of the world. He will help me with advice 
about books ; if they are too learned I shall have 
to simplify them. This must be an evening class; 
my days are too busy for any new enterprise. 

“ I am so glad I thought of it. 

“ Did I think of it ? 

. ‘‘ Among all the animals rabbits have eyes of the 
same hue, and with the same muscles, as man’s ; 
Ben Atwater knows a gentleman who wears a rab- 
bit’s eye ; he says no one suspects anything. 

“I wonder if I have any life of my own; at 
night I find I have not had half an hour to myself, 
for even my prayers are so earnest with petitions 
for others — for Emily and Nette, for all my class, 
for dear, lonely Auntie Holbrook ; for poor, wor- 
ried Miss Betsey ; for my Saturday afternoon class, 
for a blessing on my writing, for John and Harold, 
my husband’s boys, and most of all for Mary, poor 
Mary, dear Mary — that often I forget to pray for 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


275 


myself ; I think I do not forget to praise for my- 
self; I may have been more jubilantly happy in 
my life, but surely I never was so satisfied with 
God, and what he gives me to do. 

“ This book and my Bible are always open on 
my crowded writing-table, and often as many as 
a dozen times a day I jot down something I wish 
not to forget. 

“In the thirty days of September I counted over 
three hundred entries ; October promises to run 
ahead of that. 

“ Like the girl who wrote so much in her diary, 
I wonder that I find time to do anything else. 

“ To-day I wrote a long, long letter to Mary 
(twenty-seven pages), showing her all that is in my 
heart toward her, not covering the past but reveal- 
ing my base selfishness, and asking her to send for 
me if ever she felt that my presence would give 
her any pleasure, or any kind of help. We two 
are so alone. 

“ Lord, speak to her ; she must hear thee. 

• 

“Said Janet to me to-day: ‘I know I have 
prayed one thousand times for something.’ 

“ Do you believe there is any charm about the 


276 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


number of times you pray? That he will hear 
you the seventh or tenth time, or the fortieth time, 
because of those numbers in connection with the 
Bible appearances of God? There is a charm 
about something; there is a charm about your 
faith that holds and moves him ; he cannot resist 
it. We may say it overcomes him (only we know 
it is ourselves who are overcome). 

“ If your faith satisfy him (be enough for him) 
the first or third time, be sure he will not wait 
until the seventh. 

“ I once thought my seventh time would avail, 
and if that did not my fortieth would. 

“ My own hidden ways of unbelief help me to 
uncover yours. 

“ And don’t think about your faith (that is one 
way of thinking about yourself) ; think about God. 

“ Sometimes I wish we said less about faith and 
more about God ; and then we should have faith 
before we knew it. 

“ Don’t dissect your faith, don’t try its pulses, 
don’t seek to know its temperature. Christ is the 
Physician ; trust him -to do that. 

“ (And yet, before the day is over, I shall jot 
down something about faith ; I do love it so.) 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


277 


“ To me the most precious name of the Holy 
Spirit is : The Promise of the Father. 

“ What is idolatry ? 

“ To-day every one of my twenty-five girls con- 
fessed that they were idolaters. 

“ This is God’s definition : who have forsaken 
me, and have burned incense unto other gods, and 
have worshiped the works of their own hands. 

“ I am studying Jeremiah as earnestly as I 
studied Ezekiel. 

“ (When Daniel confesses the sins of his people, 
he confesses that they had not harkened unto the 
prophets who had spoken in God’s name.) 

“ How much God did for Jeremiah I 

“I knew thee — I formed thee — I sanctified thee — 
I ordained thee — I send thee — I command thee to 
speak ; I have put my words in thy mouth. 

“ God did know me before I was born, and he 
formed me, he fashioned me, as he would ; surely 
if I am at all sanctified (and I think I am) he has 
sanctified me. He has ordained me. Christ uses 
the same word : ‘ I have chosen you and ordained 
you.’ Ordained is set apart from one thing to 
another. 


278 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ (Mary writes that she pities my seclusion and 
dullness, and asks if it is because of my straitened 
means.) 

“ I can imagine her sarcasm if I should reply : 
^ O no ; lam ordained.’ 

“Am I sent? I do believe I was sent here to 
find the work I have found. 

“ Am I commanded to speak ? 

“ It seems to me so natural to write and speak 
as I do that I do not feel commanded. 

“ Poor Betsey Gunn spent the day with me yes- 
terday ; going away she said (poor thing) : ‘ It’s 
like heaven to stay here with you.’ 

“ (Anybody with an unfretful and unfretted spirit 
• must seem like heaven to her tossed soul and body 
and mind.) 

“Oh! that I might know that he had put his 
words into my motuh. 

“ (Am I presumptuous ?) 

“ Jeremiah was commanded not only to root out, 
to pull down, to destroy, to throw down, but also 
to build and to plant. 

“ With one who is not a Christian I do not know 
what to say or do ; I do not know how to rouse ; 
my work seems to be to build after the sure founda- 
tion is laid. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 279 

“ (Such little work I do ; but oh ! how much 
one soul, one heart, one mind, one body is to him ; 
it is his workmanship.) 

“ Miss Durgin asks many questions about prayer. 

(“ How can I think I speak too much of it when 
even Mr. Atwater said : ‘ I am having new light on 
prayer.) 

“ ‘ When I ask for something that is good for the 
life — for my body, for what I need as a human 
being, and God gives it to me, is that all the good 
I can get out of it ? ’ (Her face was alive with 
feeling. I was glad to have this question just 
now, when her life is so very good.) 

“ ‘ No ; that is the least good ; often I have 
stopped with that, thinking if I gave thanks for it 
I had got out of it all the good ; now I know some- 
thing of what he is teaching us by giving us these 
material things in answer to prayer; if he thus 
gladly hear and speedily answer the needs of the 
body, how much more will he gladly hear and 
speedily answer the needs of the higher part of 
us! As much more gladly as the best part of us 
is worth more than the least part of us — in his 
eyes. 

“ ‘ In our eyes our ever-growing self may be worth 


280 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN, 


much, but iu his eyes who can tell how much it is 
worth ? 

“ ‘ After ten hundred thousand years in Eternity 
you will know better than you do to-day what your 
growing self is worth. 

“ ‘ After being assured that God hears you for 
these least things, can you stop short and not ask 
for the other ? ’ 

“ ‘ But if a person’s prayer is answered for these 
least things, doesn’t it prove that God hears him 
and blesses him, and that he will be saved ? ’ she 
questioned. 

“ ‘ Do you mean that if God gives daily bread at 
one’s cry (“ he hears the young ravens when they 
cry '’) that he will give repentance and faith and 
holiness without asking ? ’ 

“ ‘ If you know he hears you and answers, you 
know he is on your side ! ’ 

“ ‘ Saul cried, “Bring hither the ephod,” that he 
might inquire of the Lord. The Lord was on his 
side that day, and Israel conquered ; but after that 
day of victory the Lord took his mercy from him ; 
he was not saved eternally because he was saved 
that day. 

“ ‘ If Saul were lost after having an answered 
prayer, why may not another man be ? 


OCTOBEB FRUITS. 


281 


‘ “ ‘ They get what they seek ; if eternal life is 

not worth seeking, I am not sure they get it ! 

“ ‘ Pharaoh said to Moses : “ Entreat the Lord 
that he may take away the frogs from me.” 

“‘And the Lord answered Moses’ prayer for 
Pharaoh. 

“ ‘ Do you not believe in those three years that 
Judas was with the Lord he asked from him some- 
thing that he granted?’ 

“ ‘ I believe Christ was very kind to him.’ ” she 
said, and then with an earnestness slie was not 
capable of a year ago : 

“ ‘ O Mrs. Maxim ! I’m afraid I have been resting 
on my answered prayers ! ’ 

“ (She is to come some time when we can be 
alone, and talk about it. I never saw her so 
worked up.) 

“ How God breaks every strength in which I 
trust ! 

“ Mr. Atwater has refused an article, saying he 
would not publish it as it is if I would give it to 
him. 

“ Because he praised me I became careless. 

“ It shall be written again, and yet again. 

“ I know what I want more than anything : the 
abiding presence of Christ. 


282 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ He will make his ‘ abode ’ with us. 

“ Mr. Atwater says the word for abode is the 
same as for mansion ; there are many homes in his 
Father’s house, and he will make one now, with us, 
here, on earth. 

“I am not homeless, alone in the old Baron’s 
room. . 

“ I will tell Miss Betsey that, to comfort her in 
giving up her home and going south to her brother. 

“ Last night I had a good crying spell all alone 
by myself in the moonlight, because I am such a 
homeless creature. 

“ Joseph and Matilda were walking up and down 
together, and Ben had called for Emily to spend 
the evening with his mother. 

“ Nobody knows that I am discouraged some- 
times, and so very desolate. 

“ Miss Betsey would open her eyes at me ; have 
I not money enough ? 

“ But money is so little when one wants so much 
more. 

“ Janet says I always look happy. 

“ How I do long to be crowned with the garland 
of praise. 

“Praise glorifies God; happiness is praise; 
Jessie’s laugh and^pretty singing are a kind of 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


283 


natural praise ; a liappy life is a praiseful life ; 
therefore I would rather that it should be said of 
me : She is a happy woman, rather than: She is a 
beautiful woman ; even rather than : She is a use- 
ful woman. A happy face, a happy heart, a happy 
life ; God grant them to me to praise him with. 

“ ‘ I might know something unpleasant would 
happen to offset that check Selah sent me,’ groan- 
ed Miss Betsey : ‘ some tiring dreadful always hap- 
pens to me after something good.’ 

“ ‘ Then I would be afraid of the good, and not 
give thanks for it,’ I said. ‘ If a good thing is a 
messenger to bring evil tidings, I would slam the 
door in his face.’ 

“ She laughed and showed me the check. 

“ Sarah Hatch came to me in a ‘tangle.’ She is 
an intelligent and thoughtful girl. 

“ ‘ I am in such a tangle ; suppose you are pray- 
ing for some one ; you may have faith enough but 
the other has not; how can God reconcile your 
faith and the unbelief of the other ? ' How can he 
give the thing you ask to her unbelief, and yet not 
giving it to her unbelief is not giving it to your 
faith ! I couldn’t understand, so I had to give up 
praying about it.’ 


284 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ ‘ I wouldn’t pray about anything I didn’t under- 
stand ! Wise girl.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t be sarcastic, please,’ she pleaded. 

“ ‘ He can give to you, as far as concerns you., all 
that your faith asks ; it is your faith that is con- 
cerned in the asking ; you have nothing to do with 
the unbelief of the other (except to pray that it 
be remoyed) or with what concerns her; God takes 
cate of that (do not try to take God’s place, or 
exert God’s power, or feel his oversight) and he 
takes care of you ; your faith will be answered if 
the earth has to be shaken to do it. 

“ ‘ Your prayers cannot corner him ; he can give 
to your faith and withhold from her unbelief in the 
very same minute, if he chooses ; do you suppose 
his far-sighted wisdom is not equal to such an 
emergency? 

“ ‘ God does not require of you wisdom to tell 
him how to answer your prayers, but simply faith 
to ask for what you need.’ 

“ She asked for pencil and paper, that she might 
write it down, and said she would think it all over. 
She is one of the mill girls, and her dress had been 
mended, but not neatly. 

“ (I am wondering how an evening sewing-class 
would do ; we could have bright talk at the same 


OCTOBER FRUITS, 


285 


time, and I would offer prizes for the greatest 
improvement.) 

“ Oh ! the good these girls are doing me. 

“ ‘Rain or shine, mud or dust, go 6ut of your 
house and see what God is doing outside,’ says 
somebody. 

“ Every day I go out and see the outside doings ; 
almost always I meet somebody to have a little talk 
with. The young clerk in the bookstore and I 
are becoming great friends. 

“ (How personal my Thought Book gets. But I 
am such a personality! I wasn’t made for pure 
thinking.) 

“ ‘ I am sorry my husband has such great faith ; 
it makes him such a go-ahead,’ bemoaned a good 
woman to me. 

“ (Such a meddler, she might have said ; ten 
people in this town have told me what a nuisance 
he is ; he can’t let people’s affairs alone.) 

“ I was sorry he had so little faith ; he might 
better think that God can do something in this* 
world without his help. 

“ ‘ I thought it must be good to do because the 


286 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


suggestion came to me while I was kneeling down,’ 
one of my mill girls said to me, shyly. 

“ ‘ Common sense is the gift of God as well as 
faith ; was it a good, common sense thing to do ? ’ 

“ ‘ Not altogether,’ she admitted ; ‘ at least, it 
didn’t seem so to mother.’ 

“ ‘ Study God’s commands, and see how wise 
they are.’ 

“ ‘ But why should I have thought of it exactly 
then ? ’ she persisted. 

“ ‘ While I was on my knees last night, praying 
for a friend, before I knew how it got there, it. 
flashed over me that I must have a carpet for my 
room this winter, and I thought of sending to that 
friend and asking her if I might have the one that 
was a favorite in my suite of rooms at her house ; 
why do you suppose I thought of it exactly then?’ 

“ ‘ I’m sure I don’t know,’ she answered, laugh- 
ing. 

“ I was grieved enough at my wandering 
thought. 

• “ All the busy life I can cram out of my days 
and evenings cannot cram the loneliness out ; I am 
doubly solitary after my visitors have gone, or when 
my head and eyes ache after my writing is done. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


287 


Mr. Atwater has decided that Emily may remain 
here all winter if I will decide to become her com- 
panion. Since Greatgrandmother died Emily has 
called me her guest, and refused my weekly board 
money. 

“ (So much more to give away, John Wesley.) 

“ My loneliness is my present trial. 

There is rest and hope in an accepted trial. I 
have told the Lord that I gladly accept it from his 
hands. Oh, how I used to cry out on my knees : 
‘ Make me brave ! Make me brave ! ’ 

“ I do look my life in the face and take this trial 
from him, and Mary’s continued silence, with the 
grief and shame of it ; and now that I have taken 
it, what then ? 

“ Take it cheerfully, making the best of it, and 
praise him in the way I bear it. 

“ I know now that I hoped she would send for 
me ; I long with heart-aching longing for my beau- 
tiful home that I loved more than I knew; I feel 
like a stranger away from it ; I want the music- 
room and the garden, and our^ own four rooms, so 
comfortable and elegant, that have been closed 
since my husband and I left them. 

“ I want to lie down and go to sleep, and awake 
in my own room ; now I know he loved me through 


288 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


it all, and that his mind was astray and not his 
heart; I want to be back where everything reminds 
me of him — where his picture is. 

“ Why may not his wife and his daughter share 
it together ? 

“ 'I brought it upon myself ; had I been kind to 
Mary I never would have left her. 

“ ‘ Stay here after I am gone,’ he said one day, 
and I answered hotly : ‘ No one keeps me here but 
you ; I will not stay twenty-four hours without 
you.’ 

“ But the hurt is being taken out ; if it were my 
own fault, the humiliation is all the deeper. 

“With that picture before her, I thought she 
could not but forgive me. 

“ I do not rebel now. Having God’s forgiveness 
I can wait for hers. 

“ The unsubmissiveness used to be the bitter and 
sharp part of my sorrow. 

“ There is a great deal of unconscious rebellion ; 
‘ I cannot hear it any longer,’ I used to cry out. 
Even if the rebellion is softened down to a feeling 
of uncomfortableness, it is still rebellion ; rebellion 
in the degree in which it is uncomfortable. 

“ The idea of being comfortable under a trial ! 

“ ‘ Thy ways and thy doings have procured these 
things unto thee.’ 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


289 


“ Before I die may my ways and my doings bring 
something happy to me. 

“ What must one do to be lost ? 

‘‘ Nothing. 

“ Do it faithfully, and you will be lost as sure as 
you live. 

“ Keep on as you are, drift along, don’t care any- 
thing about it — that’s all you have to do to be lost. 

“ My clerk (Max Truman) asked me what a man 
had to do to be saved ; I asked him what he had to 
do to be lost. 

“ I told him nothing, but to keep on as he was 
doing. 

“ He thought he was a Christian when he was 
seventeen ; now at twenty he reads atheistic books 
and laugbs at the faith he had. 

“I told him he never had any faith or any 
repentance. 

“ I left him looking more than serious — fright- 
ened. 

“ Emily came to me to-day to tell me that Ben 
Atwater has asked her to be his wife, and wishes 
to be married Christmas Day, because it his birth- 
day (his thirtieth, and she is about twenty). This 
19 


290 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


blessing has come to her because of the sweetness 
of her life, and the sweetness of her life shining in 
her face. 

“ She says she has always ‘ liked ’ Ben, but she 
never thought about this. 

“ She had no need to think about it ; God was 
thinking about it. 

“ How it would amuse me to know that some- 
body was saying : ‘ I wish I could make Grace 
Maxim’s life brighter.’ 

“ And yet that is what I am continually thinking 
about some one. 

“ I believe I should resent it. 

“ I do not want any one but God to make my 
life brighter. 

“ (I know I am wickedly proud.) But I will 
not pity myself, and I will not he pitied. 

“ There is indeed a great gulf fixed between 
Heaven and Hell, but between Heaven and Earth 
the ministering spirits travel, and the prayers of 
the parched tongues of earth are heard in heaven, 
and the cooling blessing brought. 

“ ‘ My life is so commonplace,’ exclaimed Miss 
Durgin’s friend Bella, 


OCTOBEB FBUITS. 


291 


“ I am glad I remembered to repeat ; 

“ * And God who studies each separate soul. 

Out of commonplace lives makes his beautiful whole/ 

“ I seem not to choose my material as I write ; I 
use everything I have. 

“ My articles remind me of a wash-day ‘ picked- 
up dinner ; ’ I take a little of all there is in the 
house. 

“Would my husband call that Emersonian? 

“Would he be pleased to know my words are 
getting into — not merely print, 1 hope — but into 
somebody’s heart? 

“ My name shall never appear ; G. M. is my 
guise and disguise. 

“ I have written something to-day for Mary ; 
how will she ever see it ? 

“ She never reads ‘religious ’ papers. 

“ Several boarding-school stories I have sent to 
magazines. 

“ Max says his motto is : I never weaken. 

“ Mine is : Be of good cheer. 

“ God loves a cheerful spirit. 

“ With all things, through all things, above all 
things, be of good cheer. 

“ Who has so much reason as I ? 


292 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ I asked God to give my long letter to Mary at 
the best time ; if he is waiting for that, where is 
the letter ? I wonder where he keeps lost things. 

“Max Truman took it to mail for me. I am 
sure I stamped it sufficiently ; he weighed it for 
me, and said he wished I would write him as big a 
one. 


“ I am so tired of trying to do good to people ; 
I’m tired of thinking about people ; I want to 
think about myself, and pray for myself, and rest 
myself. I’ve made a call to-day, written one of 
my Talks to Girls, scribbled off three letters, and 
written out a Church History Talk for to-night. 

“ Seventeen have promised to come to the first 
meeting. I want to be selfish a little while; I 
want to be at Auntie Holbrook’s ; I would rather 
be in the home my husband left me in — in the 
home I made myself unworthy to stay in. I’m so 
tired watching the mail for Mary’s letter. If she 
were very ill wouldn’t somebody let me know it ? 

(The big drops were falling on the page.) 

“ Even the Lord had need of rest ; why do I 
push myself on so ? 

“ Last night I asked the girls (seventeen girls 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


293 


and four of their mothers) to repeat after me, as 
we knelt, this prayer : 

“ ‘ Almighty God, who hast given us grace at 
this time with one accord to make our common 
supplications unto thee ; and dost promise that 
when two or three are gathered together in thy 
name thou wilt grant their requests ; fulfil now, 
O Lord, the desires and petitions of thy servants 
as may be most expedient for them ; granting us 
in this world knowledge of thy truth, and in the 
world to come life everlasting.’ 

“ And then we had about two moments of silent 
prayer. 

“ After we were through our talk about Chrysos- 
tom, I told them we had repeated his prayer. 

“ ‘ I wish you would have a mother’s meeting,’ 
the sad-faced mother of Sarah Hatch said to me as 
we stood apart ; ‘ we mothers work hard and stay 
at home — I left a day’s work to be done when I go 
back to-night'; I have seven children under fifteen ; 
if you could let us mothers come all together with- 
out our girls, and ask you questions, and you would 
explain things and pray for us, it would do us a 
power of good. Jane Meyrick’s mother hasn’t 
dared to ask you, but ever since you’ve been the 
girls’ teacher on Sundays we have spoken about it, 


294 


FB03I FLAX TO LINEN, 


and that’s why we four women came to-night ; I 
told them I would ask you.’ 

“ Could I say ‘ no ’ ? 

“ Sewing-class Monday evening, Church History 
Wednesday evening, Mothers’ Meeting Thursday 
evening, Teachers’ Meeting Saturday afternoon. 

“ If I wanted to do naughty things I wouldn’t 
have time ; but my naughty spirit has all the time 
there is. 

“ Now I am beginning to feel proud of myself. 

“ I think I would love Chrysostom’s prayer bet- 
ter if the name of Christ were in it ; I did finish 
with : ‘In the name of Jesus Christ.’ 

“ I believe I shall enjoy the talks with the 
mothers most of all. Am I not a mother myself? 
A mother not to be trusted with the care of my 
little children ! But if not trusted with that their 
Lord and mine trusts me to love him with my 
bereaved heart. And I do, I do. 

“(Wouldn’t it be queer if Talks to Mothers 
should grow out of these meetings? Something 
seems to grow out of every new thing I am moved 
to do. ) 

“ I’ve been wondering whether the apostles (who 
knew so clearly the Lord’s will) could see ahead in 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


295 


their own lives any differently from what we walk- 
ing-by -faith disciples do, and it was such a comfort 
to read Paul’s own words about himself : ‘ So soon 
as I shall see how it will go with me^ 

“ His next words are his comfort and mine : ‘But 
I trust in the Lord.’ 

“ This book is becoming like the dear old friend 
of my school-days ; but, oh, how different ! 

“ I’m a little bit more akin to linen than I was 
in those wilful days. 

“ Janet came in to-day to look over my books 
and read awhile ; as I wrote she sat near me 
reading. 

“ Suddenly she dropped her book and burst out, 
impatiently : 

“ ‘ Somebody says here that faith makes us rich 
because it gets all we ask. I don’t want faith just 
for that — to get things, as if it were the current 
coin in God’s kingdom, so much faith and so much 
in return ; as gold is the current coin in this world 
to get all the goods in the stores. I want the 
faith. I want faith because it is loyalty to Jesus 
Christ ; I want faith because it gives me Christ 
himself.’ 

“ How surprised I was and glad ! In her indig- 


296 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


nation she was moved out of her usual quiet. I 
never love her so well as when she is indignant. 

“ ‘ I have refused him.’ 

“ Janet said this half an hour afterward. 

“‘You have ! That good man ? ’ 

“ ‘ When I marry I hope to marry a man who 
not only behaves himself to-day, but has always 
behaved himself.’ 

“ (He cheated a man once, but he has acknowl- 
edged it and repaid him twofold.) 

“ ‘ Peter, or Paul, or David wouldn’t have had 
any chance with you, then,’ I had to say, and she 
ran away, laughing. 

“ It begins to be clear to me that there should 
not be any half-and-half knowledge about questions 
of what the Lord would have us do — no guesses, 
no uncertainties. 

“We have (I have) a hasty way of deciding 
upon the least bit of evidence that God wishes me 
to do a certain thing, especially if I am praying 
for it. 

“ But suppose the time has come for us to act ? 

“ How can it be our time to act if God’s time to 
teach us has not come ? 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


297 


“ Suppose his time to teach us has come, and we 
do not learn. 

“ If we do not learn because we will not — we 
must dwell in a dry land. 

“ Growing old is not growing in grace. 

“ Once I believed that when I was twenty I 
should be so very good — now I have put it off to 
ninety-nine. 

“ (And Greatgrandmother was not so ver^ spirit- 
ually minded.) 

“ ‘ I do not see how Fve done wrong about it,’ I 
heard Ben say to his father. 

“ ‘ Do you see how you have done right 

“ And then Ben meditated. 

“ Miss Betsey’s brother has come, and he is an 
oddity : Selah Gunn ; his name is as queer as he is. 

“ He is an old bachelor, and she is an old maid, 
and they quarrel like a cat and a dog, and make up 
like a loving old brother and a loving old sister. 

“ He is about sixty ; short, stout, with reddish 
hair, what there is of it, and a bald head ; smooth 
chin and cheeks, and a long, reddish mustache ; 
fat, white hands with handsome finger nails ; a 
high, sharp voice (you wonder at that because you 


298 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


think from his physique it should be low and 
deep) ; with a manner that begets the belligerent 
in you (in me, rather) for he tells you what he 
thinks and holds to his opinions like a Scotchman. 
He is an orange grower, and very rich, Miss Betsey 
whispered to me. . 

“ ‘ I wish Betsey would trust the Lord as fully 
as she does the United States mail,’ he grumbled 
one day ; ‘ she takes a letter to the post-office, and 
there her care of it ends ; but when she gives the 
Lord one of her troubles, her worry begins afresh. 
For her peace of mind I wish she would trust the 
United States government with her troubles, and 
not make believe trust the Lord.’ 

“ Betsey repeated it to me, and said he talked 
like a heathen and wished she were an infidel. 

“ Speaking of trusting the government reminded 
me of my letter, and on the way home I stopped 
at the bookstore and asked Max if he were sure that 
he remembered to mail it. 

“ ‘ A woman always asks that after she trusts a 
man with a letter,’ he said, laughing ; ‘ I know I 
did, Mrs. Maxim ; and thinking such a weighty 
affair might be of importance, I scribbled your 
name and address on the envelope to insure its 
safety.’ 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


299 


“ He has told me about his temperance work 
among boys, and asked me if I would invite his 
band to spend an evening in the Baron’s room and 
make it lively, and tell them some stories. 

“ ‘ Only twenty boys from twelve to twenty, 
Mrs. Maxim, and I’ll see that they behave. Some 
of them are rough fellows, but they can be gentle- 
manly.’ 

“ ‘ Max, you and I do build on the same founda- 
tion.’ 

u 4 Why, yes, w^e do. I appeal to their strength 
and manliness, and so would you. Even your 
apostle wrote to young men because they were 
strong.’ 

“ ‘ Do you teach them anything about the one 
Strong Man, Christ Jesus?’ 

“ ‘ You know I don’t,’ he said with embarrass- 
ment. 

“ ‘ Then we cannot work together ; everything I 
do I do in his Name.’ 

“ ‘ I didn’t think you would be so narrow as 
that — always excluding everything else and bring- 
ing that in,’ he answered scornfully. 

“ ‘ I didn’t think you would be so narrow as 
that — always excluding him and his power, and 


300 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN, 


bringing everything else in,’ I answered more 
quietly than I felt. 

“ For an instant he looked nonplused. 

“ ‘ But he pushes other things out.’ 

“ ‘ Come sometime and spend an evening with 
me, and we will talk about him, will you?’ 

“ ‘ Thank you ; I will very gladly.’ 

“ ‘And very gladly I will welcome you and your 
boys — if you will promise to let me say what I 
please to them.’ 

“ ‘ I tell tj^em they can be strong because they 
are strong in themselves, because they were born 
manly and self-reliant, and they are throwing away 
their manhood, and they must be honest and hon- 
orable, and keep their pledge; and you will tell 
them — I know what ! That they have no strength 
and no manliness but such as comes from his life, 
his example, his spirit in them ! ’ with another 
touch of scorn. 

“ ‘ How many have broken the pledge ? ’ 

“ ‘ It includes smoking as well as drinking ; you 
know it is hard for a fellow to break oE from 
smoking — ’ 

“‘Not for such manly, strong fellows, if they 
have made up their honorable minds to it, and 
make the effort with all their honest strength.’ 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


301 


“‘Don’t be sarcastic. Well, four have once 
broken the pledge in drinking and nine in smok- 
ing, but we don’t mind a little defeat like that ; 
our motto is : We never weaken. We shake 
hands and try again ; every one watches over his 
fellow.’ 

“ ‘ My dear boy, if you were not resolutely keep- 
ing Christ out and trusting in your own strength 
and manliness, I should bid you Godspeed. But 
I cannot bid you Godspeed in doing a right thing 
in a wrong way. Joseph and Daniel were as strong 
as even your boys need wish to be, but they were 
not self-confident. Daniel prayed three times a 
day, and Joseph would not sin against God ! I’ve 
no doubt they were naturally as strong as any one 
of your twenty boys.’ 

“ The lady at the other end of the store came 
forward and asked for Hmyers for October, and I 
told Max to send me word in time to get chairs in 
and sandwiches ready, and the Never Weakens 
might come any Friday night. 

“ He colored angrily at the name I gave them, 
but gave me an affirmative glance before I left the 
store. So my letter must have gone safely. But I 
do wonder where God is keeping it. 


302 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Brother Selah would tell me to pray to the 
United States government instead of to God. 

“ The stony ground hearer endured only for 
a while because he had no root in himself. 

“ The root must be rooted in everjdhing that 
constitutes our personality ; is not our will our 
personality ? 

“ Myself is what I will to do and what I will not 
to do. 

“ I do will that what God wills shall be rooted in 
my will. 

“ And he moves us to will. 

“ Max wills not to believe this. 

“ I am interested in this boy, with his literary 
tastes, his quick sympathies, his grace, and ease 
and winningness, his frank, blue eyes, and his hon- 
esty. He says he knows his mother has prayed for 
him twenty years, and her letters almost break his 
heart. He would believe if he could just to make 
her happy. I told him Christ said to the Jews: 
‘ Ye will not come.’ 

“ ‘ I cannot,’ he replied. 

“ ‘ Not alone — not without him. If you are try- 
ing to believe without him you never will.’ 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


303 


“‘I am not trying,’ he said. ‘ What shall I 
read ? ’ 

“ ‘ The New Testament.’ 

“ ‘ What else ? ’ 

“ ‘ The New Testament.’ 

“ He turned away impatiently. 

“ ‘ What does prayer get for you ? ’ asked Rose 
Smiley. (She is a sweet little thing.) 

“ ‘ It gets for me what God wishes to give me.’ 

“ ‘ Is that all ? ’ she asked, disappointedly. 

“O Christians! What poor children of a rich 
father some of you are ! 

“ ‘ Do you think,’ questioned Miss Durgin’s little 
sister, ‘ that the reason Rebekah loved Jacob best 
was because Esau was such an ugly, hairy man?’ 

“Would we think nowadays that a man had 
little to do whose time was spent in regulating a 
clock? King Alfred’s wax candles burnt at the 
rate of an inch an hour, and they were in charge 
of a chaplain whose only business was to attend to 
them. 

“ But he was chaplain of the king’s candles. 


304 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Matilda has been dipping candles, and I told 
her about King Alfred’s candles. 

“‘If I knew I dipped one candle for him and he 
said it was a good one, I’d be proud all my life,’ 
she returned ; ‘ Greatgrandmother told me all about 
him ; she used to tell me history.’ 

“Am I glad enough because of the little things 
I do for the One greater than King Alfred ? 

“ I honestly believe I am not glad enough ; I do 
not appreciate the blessing and the honor. If I 
did, how glad I would be to dip one candle for him. 

“ ‘ She got that from Shakespeare,’ said Max 
with that superior air of his, after he had read to 
me a fine passage from Mrs. Browning. 

“ ‘ Do you know where Shakespeare got it ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oat of his own resplendent genius.’ 

“ ‘ He got it out of the Bible. I can show you 
the passage ; it is one of the utterances of Christ. 
I would go farther back than Shakespeare if I were 
as literary as you are.’ 

“ (Why do I put these bits of talk down ? To 
smile over some rainy day when I am old.) 

“ The words of Christ are spoken to me as really 
as to Peter and John, and Lazarus and Martha. 


OCTOBEB FBUITS. 


305 


“ ‘ The Master is come and calleth for thee^' is 
spoken to me to-day. 

“ If they are not spoken to me, I would rather 
not know them. 

“ I know he says, ‘ Grace,’ as lovingly (dare I 
know it ?) as he said, ‘ Mary.’ 

“ I like to think how God spoke to people by 
name. 

“ I said to Max : ‘ Why do you not board with 
Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I can’t ! ’ he said impatiently, ‘ they are 
so zealous.’ 

“ And I happen to know he loves them both. 

‘ They are such go-ahead Christians ! They 
rush along like a river, and I wouldn’t be carried 
along, and I couldn’t stick in the middle.’ 

“ I wonder if he would board with me. I hope 
not. 

“ His next words, with a whimsical smile : ‘ I 
think I wouldn’t want to board with you, either.’ 

“ He laughed as I answered : ‘ Thank you.’ 

“ ‘ I should think you would feel as if you were 
living in the wilderness,’ writes one of my friends. 

“ Jesus withdrew into the wilderness and prayed. 

20 


306 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ And it is written that he went into a ‘ desolate 
place ’ to pray. 

“ What am I doing in my desolate place ? 

“ Miss Dargin’s little sister has spoken again. 

“ ‘ I wonder if I shall lay eggs in heaven ? ’ she - 
said meditatively at breakfast, as somebody was 
breaking her egg. ‘ If angels have wings, don’t 
they lay eggs, too ? ’ 

“ ‘ Flossy, that’s wicked ! ’ rebuked her mother. 

“ I told Brother Selah about it, when he called 
half an hour ago, to bring me a basket of grapes 
from Miss Betsey. He has a way of standing aroud 
to talk. 

“ ‘ Her mother — ^her wicked mother — has told 
her that angels have wings,’ he said, angrily. 

“ ‘ Perhaps pictures have told her,’ I suggested. 

“ ‘ That’s the mischief of some pictures ; they 
lie. Nowhere in the Bible does it say that angels 
have wings.’ 

“ I looked my surprise. 

“ ‘ You didn’t know it, either. Well, I wouldn’t 
talk about angels until I knew something tangible 
about them.’ 

“ ‘ An angel was caused to fly swiftly,’ I said, in 
triumph. 


OCTOBER FRUITS, 


307 


“ ‘ What angel ? ’ 

“ ‘ Gabriel.’ 

“ ‘ Daniel calls him the “ man Gabriel.” Angels 
have wings in pictures, and that makes angels have 
wings in heaven, and Dante makes poetry and that 
gives some poetical people an idea of what hell is. 
Take the Bible ; that’s better than pictures and 
poetry. I don’t wonder Miss Five-year-old thinks 
angels have wings, and therefore must lay eggs as 
chickens do, and older than Five-year-old thinks of 
hell as Dante pictures it out. Think of a man in 
hell sitting and holding his head in his hands ; 
that is the poet’s imagination, and not what Christ 
said about it.’ 

“ ‘ But you haven’t proved to me that Gabriel 
has no wings,’ I said mildly. 

“ ‘ Gabriel belongs to a superior order of beings ; 
he is an archangel.’ 

“ ‘ Does the Bible say so ? ’ 

“ ‘ Christian and Jewish writers both agree 
about it,’ he evaded, heatedly. 

“‘But the Bible is better than Christian and 
Jewish writers,’ I said, as solemnly as I could. But 
I know my eyes were twinkling. 

“ ‘Well,’ walking up and down, ‘I don’t think 
the Bible makes it clear.’ 


308 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ ‘ And the Bible does call him an angel.’ 

“ ‘ Well, yes — but a superior one ; I am Gabriel 
that stands in the presence of God, you know.’ 

“ ‘ But Five-year-old has the Bible on her side.’ 

“ ‘ The Bible doesn’t say that she will be an angel, 
even if she does ‘want to be an angel and with 
the angels stand.’ That’s poetry again.’ 

“ He went away rather serious. The poor man 
has something on his mind ; his eyes have a new 
expression every time I see him. 

“ How many things there are to dispute about if 
only one wants to ! I suppose there is a difference 
between angels and archangels. 

“ But Christ did not tell us about Gabriel, so I 
do not believe that I have to know. 

“ If I want to be waked up I must begin again 
with the five-year-olds. 

“ I’ve been learning a few facts about single 
women — the ‘Unappropriated,’ as somebodj^ calls 
them. 

“ In England and Wales, forty-three out of every 
hundred women cannot marry because there are 
not husbands for them. 

“In Prussia, there are one million and a half 
unmarried women. 


OCTOBEB FRUITS. 


309 


“ (I must tell the girls and Miss Betsey.) 

“ In Baden, thirty-five out of every • hundred 
women earn their own living. 

“ Herodotus writes that once a year the Babylon- 
ians held a wife-auction. 

“A Bulgarian who has been studying in this 
country, and expects soon to return as a mission- 
ary, called with Ben Atwater. 

“ Emily and I showed him the house. 

“In speaking of his customs in contrast to 
American ways, he said Bulgarian girls did the 
‘ asking ’ as frequently as the young men, perhaps 
more frequently (his English was excellent), be- 
cause the young men waited for the girls. 

“ They would rather be asked ; then they were 
more sure that the girl loved them than if she only 
were willing when the young man asked her. 

- “ He said it had been the custom as long as any- 
body remembered, or as history told. 

“ Ben mischievously asked if any girl had asked 
him. The red blood showed through his dark skin 
as he said : ‘ Yes ; once in my own country, and in 
this country a Bulgarian girl at school asked me to, 
write to her, but I excused myself. We do not 
refuse without a reason ; I told her I had not time, 
and, of course, she understood.’ 


310 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Emily indignantly remarked that girls in this 
country would never be married if the young men 
waited for them to speak. 

“ He looked at her gravely and then said, with 
the air of a foreigner who has studied American 
political’ economy: ‘But you Americans act as 
though you were willing to be asked, and that is 
the same thing.’ 

“‘Exactly,’ said Ben, teasingly. 

“ The young people left us alone, and he told me 
about his studies and labors in this country. 

“ Mrs. Atwater had told me many things about 
his strong, simple faith. He reminded me of the 
days of the early Christians. 

“ He certainly has the genius of faith. 

“And yet he said when he returns he would 
rather have a salary than be a ‘ faith missionary.’ 

“ I wish Max might know him. 

“ Ben says that when his father said to him at 
parting, ‘ The Lord be with you, Peter,’ he replied 
with his smiling simplicity, ‘ He has been with me, 
and he will be with me more and more.’ 

“ He said, ‘ I expect to go to Jerusalem,’ as he 
might have said, ‘ I expect to go across the street.’ 

“Ben says he had nothing but faith ; that gave 
him pluck. I can tell Max that this young man. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


311 


coming to a strange land, without money, with the 
knowledge of perhaps a dozen words in our tongue, 
returns home speaking excellent English, having 
studied at several of our noted institutions of learn- 
ing, and traveled (and lectured) as Max himself has 
not thought of traveling (it was comical to hear 
him speak of Lake George, Saratoga, etc.) ; having- 
worked betimes at anything his honest hands could 
find to do. 

“ He hasn’t weakened. 

“‘If Jesus wants me to preach he will make me 
ready,’ he said to Mr. Atwater five years ago when 
he worked in his garden, took care of his horse, 
and whitewashed his cellar. 

“ His father is a shepherd and Peter a shoe- 
maker. 

“ ‘ I never saw him do one thing I would be sorry 
to see Ben do,’ said Mrs. Atwater ; ‘ he has great 
tact. I expect that came from where his faith 
comes from.’ 

“I shall never see him again — big, simple, great- 
hearted fellow ; but I am glad I have seen him this 
time, and that I know he is one of the laborers in 
that harvest across the sea. 

“ I will pray the Lord of the harvest that he send 
forth such laborers. 


312 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ O Max, Max, do you not want to be strong 
like this? Surely, Max, your mother and I are 
‘ two ’ who are praying for you. 

“Was every day in the Lord’s life what we 
would call an eventful day ? 

“ Did he do some wonderful work every day or 
teach some wonderful lessons ? 

“ Or were there some of his human days like our 
days, with nothing outward to mark them from 
other days? 

“ ‘ And when he had said these things unto them 
he abode still in Galilee.’ 

“ Doing God’s will, but so quietly, with no un- 
usual evidence of God’s favor, that there was 
nothing new to record for us ? 

“ It will seem like the old times before I became 
Judge Maxim’s wife (I never called him once by 
his first name, John) to have those boys spend an 
evening with me ; for seven years I had a class of 
boys, and we had our Tuesday evening prayer- 
meeting every week during the winter in Auntie 
Holbrook’s sitting-room. After they had learned 
to pray in our little meetings, they were not afraid 
or ashamed to pray in the church prayer-meetings. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


313 


“ As I take a backward glance over these pages 
I am ashamed to see how repeatedly I have re- 
corded my own sayings; but then that is what 
this book is /or, and no one will ever misjudge me 
because no one will ever be permitted to read it. 

“ I am looking forward to a day all to myself ; I 
am waiting to be weary enough — or just discour- 
aged, and miserable, and wicked enough ! 

“ Max asked me to-day, with that injured air of 
his, what objection I had to their motto : We never 
weaken. 

“ I told him I delighted in it ; that Paul was one 
of the strongest characters that ever lived, and it 
was his motto. 

“ His face became radiant ; he asked if it were 
in the New Testament, and if I would find it for 
him. 

“ ‘ I didn’t know we had such authority as that,’ 
he said ; ‘ I’ve told the boys that he was a first- 
rate temperance man.’ 

“We happened to be alone in the store; he 
brought me a new Bible, and I found : 

“ ‘ J can do all things through Christ which 
strengtheneth me.’ 

“ He was too much of a gentleman to throw the 


314 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


book in my face, but he dropped it as if he threw 
it down. 

“ ‘ 0 Max ! ’ I said, and could not utter another 
word. 

“ I’m afraid I haven’t any tact. 

“A jubilant letter from Nette ; she has taken 
her first lesson in crayon drawing. She says I may 
be proud of her when she sends me Mrs. Hol- 
brook’s sweet old face, and that her fingers fairly 
tingle to put those gray curls on paper. She has 
spent hours on them already, and Auntie looks up 
from her knitting and smiles, and calls her a silly 
child. 

“It is wonderful about my eyes ; after the rest 
a1^ Auntie’s and the fresh air they were bathed in 
morning, noon and night, they seemed to become 
young again ; I can read and write several hours a 
day, but they do smart and burn, and feel as if 
sand were irritating them once in a while at bed- 
time. 

“ Emily and I spent Sunday at Mrs. Atwater’s ; 
I was refreshed spiritually and mentally. When 
Mrs. Atwater asked me why, when I loved Auntie 
Holbrook so dearly, I had been eager to leave her, 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


315 


for an instant I had to think, and then my answer 
was one, word: ‘ People.’ 

“ ‘ Is she the only one in her village ? ’ Mr. At- 
water questioned, with a comically innocent face. 

“ ‘ But my sphere was too narrow,’ I insisted. 

“ ‘ There’s a lot said about narrow spheres,’ said 
Ben, ‘ especially among you women ! Stand a 
woman in the middle of a small room and she’s 
quite a figure ; but drop her down in the aisle of a 
cathedral and where is she ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ben, you are too bad ! ’ reproved his father ; 
‘ Mrs. Maxim is content with her small room.’ 

“ ‘ But not with a smaller,’ he said, laughing. 

“ Am I so presumptuous as to think that no one 
but Grace Maxim could do my work in Brook- 
town ? work ! Is that written with pride or 
humility ? 

“ If my eyes should fail again, or some narrow- 
walled, low-ceiled sick-room should shut me in, 
would I be satisfied with God’s work, then ? 

“ Do I love God’s work now because I delight in 
the work., any way? 

“ Is my mental delight one secret of my spiritual 
satisfaction ? 

“ The boys came and we had a jolly time ; lights, 


316 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


chairs and sandwiches were supplied, and Max 
called upon me to tell them a story. 

“ ‘ Boys,’ I began, ‘I’ll tell you the story of the 
Man that Never Weakened.’ 

“I was so worked up myself that I was glad 
when they shouted and clapped, and one big, 
brown-eyed fellow winked hard to wink his tears 
away. 

“ All I did was to make pictures of Paul’s own 
words : 

“ ‘ Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes 
save one, 

“ ‘ Thrice was I beaten with rods, 

“ ‘ Once was I stoned, 

“ ‘ Thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day 
have I been in the deep ; 

“ ‘ In journeyings often, 

“ ‘ In perils of water, 

“ ‘ In perils of robbers, 

“ ‘ In perils by mine own countrymen, 

“ ‘ In perils by the heathen, 

“ ‘ In perils in the city, 

“ ‘ In perils in the wilderness, 

“ ‘ In perils in the sea, 

“ ‘ In perils among false brethren, 

“ ‘ In weariness and painfulness. 


OCTOBER FRUITS. 


817 


“ ‘ In watchings often, 

“ ‘ In hunger and thirst, in fastings often, 

“ ‘ In cold and nakedness. 

“ And then Paul the aged, the prisoner of the 
Lord, laid his head down upon the block. 

“ Not once did I mention his name, and not one 
of them guessed it (of course. Max knew). 

“ ‘ What did he do it for ? ’ cried one of the 
boys; ‘what he did it for makes all the difference.’ 

“ Then came my grand opportunity : 

“ ‘ He did it for a friend,’ I said, as quietly as I 
could, with my heart beating so ; ‘ this friend had 
suffered death in his stead.’ 

“ ‘ Three cheers for the Man who Never Weak- 
ened,’ shouted a little fellow, the noisiest of the 
band. 

“ ‘ I’d like to know about that other fellow, and 
see if he was worth it,’ cried another. 

“ (Max picked them up on street corners ; two 
or three had been several times to Sunday-school.) 

“ ‘ I will tell you about him next time,’ I prom- 
ised, thinking they had heard all they could bear ; 
‘ this man’s motto, being translated into our common 
words, was like this : 

“ ‘ I never weaken because I do all things through 
him who died in my place.’ 


318 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ ‘ Had he been a bad fellow — deserving to be 
hanged?’ asked somebody. 

“ ‘ He says he had been the wickedest man that 
ever lived.’ 

“ ‘ Then this other man was hanged instead of 
him — for murder and things he did?’ asked an 
excited voice. 

“ ‘ Yes ; he was hanged on a cross instead of 
him — for things that he did.’ 

“ Max would not look at me. 

“ ‘ It’s the grandest story I ever heard,’ cried the 
noisy boy, ‘ and I think if a fellow was handed to 
keep my neck out of the halter I’d just like to go 
through fire and water for him.’ 

“ I think I should have broken down and cried 
if Max had not, just then, handed a plate of sand- 
wiches to the noisy boy to pass around. 

“ So they are to come once more. 

“ When Max shook hands all he said was : 
‘ Thank you.’ But I wish his mother had seen his 
eyes ! 

“ O October, October, what a blessed month you 
have been to me ! ” 


XVIII. 


MISS BETSEY’S EKRAND. 

“ This will not do,” soliloquized Grace aloud, 
in a tone at once merry and pathetic, as she sat 
shivering in the sunshine of the Baron’s room one 
morning in November ; “ Baron Steuben I admire, 
and Greatgrandmother I love ; still, to please you 
both, I will shiver no more in this big, cold, bright 
room.” 

She paced the floor a while to bring her blood 
into freer circulation, and to plan what to do next, 
for if she were determined not to shiver in this 
room, where should she shiver ? 

The wedding would be on Christmas Day, and 
after that there might be changes ; Mr. and Mrs. 
Ben Atwater might not be inclined to keep her as 
guest tlirough the winter, and Greatgrandmother 
was not there to persuade her to remain as boarder; 
^no longer Greatgrandmother’s boarder, and for this 
month only Emily’s guest it might be, where should 
she next betake herself ? 

Every single thing in this old-time room seemed 

( 319 ) 


320 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


to return her friendly touch; she did not know any 
other room in Brooktown consecrated by her hus- 
band’s step ; it would not be easy to break away 
from these associations and make for herself an- 
other place to be like home. 

If this brook Cherith were to be dried up, would 
any other widow woman take her in ? 

There was The Backwoods ! 

But she was not ready for The Backwoods yet ; 
the old home might gather her into its arms some 
day when she was very weary, but until Riverside 
became her home again (and what a wild dream 
that was) had she not her boys, her girls, her 
mothers, here in Brooktown ? 

There was Miss Betsey. 

Miss Betsey would not be so veiy uncomfortable 
to live with; her tall angularity was so unlike 
Auntie Holbrook’s small plumpness, and her ways 
and words as penetrating as a cold rain in mid- 
winter; there was always something to resist in 
her, and she did not like to use her strength in 
resisting; but there was also that ugly, cosy sit- 
ting-room with the wood fire in the air-tight and* 
the bedroom opening out of it, both rooms small 
enough to be heated by the same fire, and there 
she might bring her books, and pictures, and writ- 


MISS BETSErS EBB AND. 


321 


ing-table, and give herself up to her new and most 
fascinating work; and there, if Miss Betsey and 
Brother Selah pleased, she might crowd her boys, 
and girls, and mothers. 

Still Brother Selah might object to boys, and 
girls, and mothers ; he seemed to object to every- 
body who occupied a cubic inch in his small quar- 
ters ; he had promised Miss Betsey a twenty-dollar 
muff if she would not invite any one to tea through 
the winter. 

When any one came uninvited he grufSy took 
himself off; still she remembered he had not taken 
himself off one day when she stayed to tea at 
Miss Betsey’s urging ; he had not only stayed, but 
he had talked with a great deal of common sense 
and spirituality, and had even insisted upon walk- 
ing home with her, although she had persisted that 
it was moonlight and she was not a bit afraid. 

To his generous offer of the muff, Miss Betsey 
had indignantly replied that she would rather 
freeze her fingers; Miss Betsey would certainly 
have her will. 

But then, even if she were allowed the rare 
privilege of breakfast, dinner and supper in that 
handsome kitchen, how could the old bachelor bear 
her troops of girls ? 

21 


322 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


And the boys were worse still! 

And some of the mothers she might wish some- 
times to ask to come to tea ! ^ 

But might she not get tea in her own room ? 

Why might she not keep house in Miss Betsey’s 
house ? Why need she be a widow and desolate ? 

Why not make herself into a family— of one ? 

She knew how to economize ; five hundred a 
year, with her own small earnings added, was 
quite a housekeeper’s income. 

(She would like to tell Mary, and see the look in 
her eyes.) 

Would the At waters take her in? 

Would Mary never take her in? 

Would her owm home, her husband’s home, never 
open its wide doors to her ? 

Had she cast herself out? Were those never 
taken in who cast themselves out? It said some- 
where : “ And the door was shut.” 

She did not sigh for elegance,; the old Baron’s 
room was elegant enough for her, but there was 
the charm of home about those wide corridors and 
handsome stairways, about the conservatory and 
music-room, the garden of chrysanthemums which 
Mary called her winter garden, the lawn and veran- 
das, and more than all the rooms which for so many 


MISS BETSEY’S EBRAND, 


323 


long years were especially her own ; the rooms in 
which her little ones were born, and in which they 
lay and suffered their little lives away ; the long, 
soft-carpeted rooms through which her husband 
had walked with her, leaning on her arm, when 
sometimes in the twilight he would speak words 
that were her joy to remember, and that last room 
of all in which he slept, and sleeping, did not 
awake; oh, for one day in them, one night of 
sleep ! 

Might she write to John? Might she tell him 
that her heart was aching to breaking? 

Why had slie ever been so rebellious, so hard, so 
bitterly bitter ? 

Why must she be two people? — she knew one of 
herself was chastened, subdued, grateful, penitent, 
humble — and yet not humble enough to write to 
John. Not humble enough to heg of John. 

Would Mary never dare to love her? 

Did all those hurried, passionate pages, that she 
had written with slow tears and quick prayers, 
mean nothing at all to her ? Had she read them 
with Aunt Horatia beside her ? 

Would Aunt Horatia never change or — die? 

And then she became so frightened at herself 
that she was glad to be relieved of herself by the 


324 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


sudden, quick knock on the door of some one who 
evidently had had urgent business at their fingers’ 
ends. 

Miss Betsey Gunn, with her faded black shawl 
pinned more closely than usual about her shoulders, 
and more tightly at her throat, and her queer veil 
tied over her old-fashioned black velvet bonnet. 

(Grace had coaxed the red roses out of it.) 

Miss Betsey ! I am glad to see you,” exclaimed 
Grace’s welcoming voice. 

“ And I want to see you or I shouldn’t have come 
out in this cold snap ; it’s raw, even if the sun is 
shining. I couldn’t believe you were in here with- 
out a fire! What is Emily Achsah thinking of? 
But I suppose her wedding day is fillii^g her 
head!” 

“ I am beginning to think this must be my last 
day without a fire,” said Grace, giving a pull to 
the stout shawl pin ; “ Emily wouldn’t stay ; she 
took her work out to the kitchen an hour ago ; 
there is a stove in Greatgrandmother’s room, but 
we have not taken ourselves there; myself and my 
belongings cannot be easily moved.” 

“ Why don’t you have a fire ? ” asked Miss Bet- 
sey, twitching off her veil with her stiff fingers. 

“ I will take you out to the fire,” returned 


MISS BETSEY^ 8 EBB AMD. 


325 


Grace, laughing ; “ I was too absorbed to know I 
was cold until my feet resented the state of the 
atmosphere. November isn’t a cold month.” 

“ This Novefnber is ! Selah hugs the fire like a 
sick woman ; I had no need to charge him to keep 
the fires up. I tell him I’d rather go back to 
Florida than wheeze all winter here. But he’s 
taken it into his obstinate head to stay, and he’ll 
stay if he doesn’t go out of doors all winter.” 

“ Don’t sit down, please,” said Grace, as her 
visitor looked with favor upon Emily’s chair at 
the window ; “ I will not give so warm a friend so 
cold a welcome. There will be fires enough when 
Ben is master; Emily has not wished to make 
changes until he comes; then we shall see the 
nineteenth century sitting down in the lap of the 
eighteenth, and won'd this house be a picture ? 

“ Mrs. Atwater is to furnish Emily’s sleeping- 
room ! Just think of going tln-ough Greatgrand- 
mother’s room and crossing a hall and opening the 
door into that room ! The two Emily Achsahs and 
their sleeping-rooms! Wouldn’t you like to see 
the two girls standing side by side ? ” 

Miss Betsey’s imagination not being of the vivid 
order, she looked rather blank and stood still. 

“ If you can keep warm here I can,” she jerked 


out. 


326 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ But I can't unless I promenade.” 

“ I have promenaded enough ! I want to sit 
down,” was the tart response, as she slowly seated 
herself. “Do you expect to stay here after Emily 
Achsah is married?” she inquired, with sharp 
pointedness, seeking to conceal an unusual embar- 
rassment with a close consideration of the gray 
woolen mittens in her lap. “ It will be dreadful 
lonesome for a lively young thing like you.” 

“ A lively young thing ! ” Grace repeated the 
words mentally, then she laughed. . 

“ I am sometimes doleful, as I was when you 
came in, but I soon brighten up. Emily is with 
me hours at a time, and has slept with me since 
she has been alone — ” 

“ But she won’t be with you hours at a time when 
Ben has his way with her ; his is like his father and 
dreadfully dictatorial — but all men are that — and 
you’ll be here alone ; even if you have a fire you’ll 
get lonesome.” 

“A fire is a great deal of company; a fire and a 
clock take on a new meaning when one is alone ; 
they become alive and responsive. And the girls 
are always coming. Oh, no ! I shall not be lonely.” 

Her voice sounded as though she had never been 
lonely in her life. 


MISS BETSEY’S EBBAND. 


327 


Miss Betsey’s sunken, dull eyes were studying 
Grace’s face with something more than her usual 
curiosity; Grace was struck by their keen fixed- 
ness ; had she come to offer her a home ? 

She was a “lively young thing,” Miss Betsey 
ran on in her mental inventory, so pert with her 
wisex and funny sayings, and so pretty with her 
pretty hair and the color in her cheeks, and her 
laugh and moving about, and rich, perhaps, with 
those rings and that seal cloak she wore on Sun- 
days ; her dress this minute was handsome enough 
to cost money, even if she had made it herself. 

And as Judge Maxim’s wife she must have rich 
and grand relations. 

She never would dare to speak ; she was an old 
fool to come ; more of an old fool than Selah was 
himself, for ke never would dare. 

This morning while stirring the potatoes that 
were stewing for breakfast, she had decided to take 
her life in her hand and brave Mrs. Maxim in her 
den. 

Mrs. Maxim in her den looked very pretty and 
harmless, but in another minute the fire might be 
shooting out of her pleasant eyes ; she might even 
point to the door and command her to leave the 
house. 


328 


FB03f FLAX TO LINEN, 


■ She looked capable of it, with all her sweetness 
and pretty ways. 

If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Haddem and her expe- 
rience which she told her yesterday when she ran 
in to see the old lady and hear if her son’s baby 
had got well over the croup, she never would have 
dared to get as far as this. 

Seeing that the old face looked troubled and 
perplexed, Grace pretended to find something to 
arrange upon the dressing-table ; Miss Betsey’s 
eyes followed every movement with the fevered 
debate going on in her brain. 

Miss Lucy Richards, that Mrs. Haddem had 
asked to marry her dissipated son, was so different 
from this elegant Mrs. Maxim; Miss Lucy Rich- 
ards was a milliner’s clerk, and this lady was 
Judge Maxim’s widow. 

But then, poor Tom Haddem was a good-for- 
nothing, and the wonder was that Lucy had con- 
sented, and Selah, well, Selah was a sort of an old 
fogy compared to what Mrs. Maxim might expect 
to do — but he wasn’t so bad looking, and he read 
books enough and he had money, and he had never 
done a thing in his life that Grace Maxim or any 
other woman would be ashamed to hear about. 

He was elder in a church down in Florida and 


MISS BETSEY’S EBB AND. 


329 


superintendent of a Sunday-school, and life mem- 
ber of the American Tract Society, and his own 
name was on the boxes that his oranges were 
packed in. Mrs. Maxim couldn’t do better, that 
is, if she was inclined to “ do ” at all, and she was 
terribly afraid she wasn’t. 

It wasn’t at all a case like Lucy Richards ! 

Lucy was poor, and her father was a drunkard, 
and she was glad enough of a home with old Mrs. 
Haddem ! 

But would Mrs. Maxim come to live with her 
and Selah ? 

If Selah was not so dreadfully down-hearted she 
never would have dared to come. 

At this instant, while Miss Betsey could hear 
the beating of her own heart and the tears were in 
her eyes ready to overflow, the lady at the dress- 
ing-table turned and spoke. 

“ Do take your things off and stay to dinner ; 
Matilda has roast mutton and Emily made the des- 
sert — hot apple pie. Emily is quite a housekeeper 
nowadays.” 

With a whisk of her handkerchief across her 
eyes and a nervous clearing of her throat, Miss 
Betsey brought herself to a state of composure ; 
she said rapidly, and with something more than 


830 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


her usual animation : “ I don’t wonder those girls 
like to come here, and boys, too. Selah heard 
from Maxwell Truman about the boys. I’m glad 
you’ve taken him in hand. Are you getting ready 
to go on a mission ? ” 

“Oh, dear! no,” coming back to a chair near 
Miss Betsey; “I don’t know that I’m getting ready 
for anything ; I wish I were. I think I’ve come to 
a stopping place — the place where nothing ever 
happens any more.” 

“ Do you want something to happen?” was the 
next eager question. 

“ Some thing, yes I Not anything.” 

“ Do you think it will ? ” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ I know you think you get what you pray for.” 

“ I know I do — sometimes.” 

“ Not always ? ” 

“I can’t tell — not till my life is ended, you 
know. I do not get things in my time, very 
often — my impatient time.” 

“ Are you really going away from here ? ” 

Miss Betsey bent forward in her eager anxiety, 
and opening her knees wide enough to drop her 
hands into them, sat with her hands pressed 
together between her knees. 


MISS BETSEY’S ERRAND. 


331 


“ I expect to ; I wish to ; I think the young peo- 
ple will be more at ease together, and certainly 
happier, alone. I do not want to spoil their pretty 
housekeeping. I believe,” she added, with the 
slightest change in her tone, “ that it is better to 
let the getting acquainted be without some one 
looking on.” 

“As if they wasn’t acquainted. Ben has known 
her since — ^well, ever since she was born, I should 
say.” 

“ Nevertheless they do not know each other yet ; 
they have never been husband and wife.” 

“ This house is big enough for another family.” 

“ I am not a family,” said Grace, sadly. 

“ There’s your aunt where Annette has gone,” 
suggested Miss Betsey. 

“ She has Nette.” 

“You haven’t any home, then?” 

It was several seconds before the slow, hard 
“ No ” was spoken. 

“ It’s queer, and you so rich.” 

“ I am not rich in that way.” 

“ I thought you might like to stay in Brook- 
town,” said Miss Betsey, courageously faint-hearted. 

“ I expect to for the present ; dear Miss Betsey, 
what an interest you take in me.” 


332 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Miss Betsey looked up ; but no, that was not 
sarcasm ; Mrs. Maxim was not displeased — yet. 

“ It’s a pretty place in summer, and you find 
work to do,” suggested the eager, timid voice. 

“ O yes.” 

“ And people like you.” 

“ Yes,” she assented again, thinking that few 
“ liked ” her anywhere. 

“ I’ve got a nice little house and the prettiest 
kitchen, as you’ve seen, and the sitting-room is 
comfortable, and the room off — I sleep up-stairs — I 
had to give that to Selah because he often comes 
out and sleeps in his chair by the air-tight, with his 
asthma. That’s all anybody can say against him — 
that asthma and not having folks to tea.” 

“ I know what a thoughtful brother he is,” said 
Grace, comfortingly. 

“And he’s getting over minding having folks 
come, little by little — he said the Haddems might 
come any time, he’s so sorry for that intemperate 
young Tom. He is set in his ways ; so I am, and 
I shouldn’t wonder if you was, too; everybody 
with strong character is. He’s free with his money; 
there’s not a stingy hair in his head.” 

Grace smiled as the vision of the bald head and 
its thin fringe of reddish hair arose before her. 


MISS BETSEY’S EBRAND, 


333 


“You would like to come and stay with us now, 
wouldn’t you?” persuaded Miss Betsey, lifting 
herself and loosening her hands, encouraged by 
the smile. 

“ Oh, you dear old woman ! Did you come to 
ask me to do what I’ve been thinking of?” cried 
Grace, with affectionate impulsiveness. 

“ Wouldn’t you mind the girls coming? Or the 
boys ? And how could you get along without your 
sitting-room ? ” 

“ I thought I could sit with you,” said Miss Bet- 
sey, timidly ; “ I’m as still as a mouse.” 

“ I’m afraid I couldn’t write ; I love to be alone ; 
I should have to be alone.” 

“ I almost always sit in the kitchen, anyway — 
excepting Sundays; it is Selah who musses up the 
sitting-room. There’s a parlor, too, you know.” 

“ Perhaps I can have that.” 

“ You may have the whole house and back yard 
beside, if you’ll only come. I never took such a 
fancy to any one as I have to you. I’m handy for 
my age ; I can cook as well as ever ; I can do 
everything as well as ever, and Selah he’s as spry 
as a boy. Your first husband was an old man when 
you married him, wasn’t he ? ” 

“Excuse me,” Grace spoke very gently, “I have 


334 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


been married but once. Judge Maxim was more 
than twice my age, but he did not seem old to me.” 

“ I knew you wouldn’t object to his age,” cried 
Miss Betsey, in radiant triumph. 

“To whose age?” asked Grace, bewildered; 
“ are you speaking of J udge Maxim ? ” 

“ Your first husband? Oh, no ! I meant brother 
Selah. He never thought about marrying any 
woman until he saw you.” 

To Miss Betsey’s consternation, Grace covered 
her face with both hands and burst into tears. 

“Oh, don’t! don’t!” cried the distressed old 
woman ; “ I didn’t mean to make you cry. Selah 
wouldn’t have you cry for the world. He said he 
had no more hope of you than of Diana of the 
Ephesians. I’m mortal sorry I came if it costs 
you like that. Selah don’t know a word about it, 
and I wouldn’t have him know it for the world ! 
Don’t cry so! Hush, hush, poor lamb,” breaking 
into tears herself ; “ I’ll never say it again, and I’ll 
go right home.” 

Grace wept aloud ; the sympathetic touch upon 
her bowed head was more than she could bear ; 
and he had dared to think this about her husband’s 
wife ! 


MISS BETSEY’S EBB AMD. 


535 


“ I don’t see wliat under the canopy I made such 
a fool of myself for. I might have known he 
wasn’t your kind. Selah will never forgive me.” 

“ Yes, he will,” said Grace, composing herself 
by strong effort, “he shall never know. You can- 
not know how you hurt me ; I never thought any- 
one would dare.” 

“Folks will dare,” said Miss Betsey, grimly; 
“ you’d better go back to your aunt. I could tell 
you lots of talk — everybody is curious about you, 
and watches who speaks to you. You need pro- 
tection as much as Emily Achsah. And Selah 
knew it — poor Selah,” groaned Selah’s old sister, 
you don’t seem to think of him.” 

Out of compassion for the old woman, trembling 
and weeping in her chair, with her bowed head 
nearly touching her knees, Grace suppressed the 
indignant words that arose to her lips. 

“ Come to dinner ! come to dinner ! ” chanted 
Jessie’s sweet voice at the door. 

“If ever a poor mortal wanted her dinner that’s 
me,” whined Miss Betsey; “I couldn’t eat one 
mouthful of breakfast, and I’ve had a long walk in 
the wind.” 

“And then Joseph shall drive you home,” said 


336 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Grace, rising and speaking with her usual self- 
possession ; “lam sorry I forgot you.” 

“ And you’ve promised never to tell.” 

“ Yes,” said Grace, gravely and proudly. 


XIX. 


“ALL EIGHT.” 

Selah Gunn leaned back in his cushioned 
rocker, with his slippered feet elevated to the top 
of the back of a cane-seated chair in front of the 
air-tight in Miss Betsey’s sitting-room; he had 
thrown his red silk handkerchief over his bald 
head to shield his eyes from the glaring light of 
the unshaded kerosene lamp at which his sister sat 
poring over the book he had brought from the 
Sunday-school library that afternoon. 

His cashmere wrapper of flaming colors was 
Miss Betsey’s cut and making, his gray stockings 
of her knitting, and the silk handkerchief her 
Christmas present. 

She said to herself several times daily thai she 
was doing all she could to comfort him ; the last 
strain upon her sisterly sympathy was to let him 
scatter unscolded the burnt ashes of his latest 
asthma remedy upon the chair at his bedside, and 
over the carpet in front of the bed. A saint 
couldn't stand anything more than that she told 
herself. 


22 


( 337 ) 


338 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ They say it is the young women in this country 
who read the novels,” Selah remarked, breaking 
his meditative silence, “and I guess lots of the 
old women read the Sunday-school books.” 

“ That’s better than reading the novels ! ” replied 
Miss Betsey, tartly, who was never too absorbed in 
a book to heed the slightest interruption. “ Sup- 
pose you heard me say that I had to sit up at night 
to find out whether Lord Mortimer Montmorency 
married Lady Flossy de Courtney, would you like 
that any better? That’s what old Mrs. Haddem 
said last night.” 

“ I like what you are doing so well that I couldn’t 
like anything any better ; why do you expostulate 
as though I were finding fault ! ” 

“Your tone is usually fault finding.” 

“ Your secret consciousness makes it so. I heard 
two girls to-day, one boy and one young lady tell 
the librarian that they wanted a book for mother, 
and one girl asked for one to suit her grandfather. 
One boy said he wanted something good for his 
father ; I was glad to hear that.” 

“ What did you say? ” inquired Miss Betsey, in 
a mollified tone, letting her thick volume fall into 
her lap and dropping off her glasses between the 
leaves to keep her place. 


ALL BIGHT.' 


339 


She liked conversation somewhat better than 
reading. 

“ Oh, I said I wanted a book for an old woman 
who wasn’t particularly literary, but she liked 
thickness, so that it would last all the week ; com- 
mon sense, true to life as she understood it, for it 
was never true to life unless it were true to life as 
she knew it, and plenty of action to keep her 
awake. He gave me the thickest one he had.” 

“I’ve had thicker,” said Miss Betsey, wisely 
ignoring several points in his remarks. 

“ I knew you wanted it to last all the week.” 

“Something has got to last all the week,” re- 
torted Miss Betsey; “you scarcely speak to me 
unless to tell me to do something for you; some- 
thing has got to keep life in me this cold weather 
now that I can’t even go to church. I took my 
cold that day in November that I took dinner with 
Emily Achsah.” 

“ Is that all you took ? ” he asked, whether with 
sarcastic intent or not she could not determine ; 
his voice was very lamb-like and she could not see 
his face, for as soon as he began to talk he pulled 
the silk handkerchief down to his chin. That was 
an ominous sign ; had he surmised anything ? 

“If you’re going to act up like this, Selah Gunn, 


340 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


for all the comfort you are to me you may better 
go back to your orange groves.” 

The head under the silk handkerchief gave a 
decided nod in the affirmative, and he lifted his 
foot and dangled his slipper. 

“ For all the comfort I am to myself, you might 
add, sister Betsey; I’m wheezing a poor sort of 
existence here.” 

“You’ve just discovered it, it appears to me.” 

“The passing away of the old year is apt to 
make one reflect; the untried future is just upon 
us.” 

“ Any more than it ever is ? ” 

“ It’s more upon me than it ever was before,” he 
answered, emphatically, giving the dangling slipper 
a toss with his foot, “ and I am not man enough to 
face it ; one would think sixty years of life would 
make a man brave enough to face the sixty-first.” 

“ I faced mine,” said Miss Betsey, heroically. 

“And that’s all you ever did with it.” 

“ You can’t seem to do that.” 

He chuckled and wheezed, and Miss Betsey put 
on her glasses with a humorous wrinkle in the 
corner of her grim eyes. 

But the book was not satisfactory, or something 
else was not, for the glasses were pushed between 


right: 


341 


the leaves again, and Miss Betsey inquired in a 
a careless tone : “ Did you hear any news at Sun- 
day-school to-day?” 

“ That isn’t what I go to Sunday-school /or.” 

“ You get what you don’t go for then, sometimes, 
for you told me last Sunday that Maxwell Truman 
walked home with Mrs. Maxim.” 

“ He’s a beardless boy — not twenty.” 

“ Sunday-school is just the place for him, then.” 

“I didn’t object to the Sunday-school.” 

“ Did you object to him, or the walking, or the 
home, or Mrs. Maxim ? ” 

“I object to your remarks about it. I spoke 
hastily. I go to Sunday-school to tell the news,” 
he added, impressively. 

“ That sounds well for a Christian man and an 
elder, and a teacher of a Bible class,” was the 
severe rebuke. 

“That’s what Paul went to Ephesus for, and 
Macedonia and Spain.” 

“I wouldn’t trifle about Paul,” rebuked Miss 
Betsey severely. 

“Dr. Atwater brought me three new boys to- 
day — some of Max Truman’s gang; we got to 
talking lively about Paul, and didn’t they know 
more about some things than I did! They all 


342 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


wanted to talk together, and one called him ‘ clear 
grit,’ and another ‘ that plucky old fellow ! ’ They 
were worked up to a genuine enthusiasm ; Max 
didn’t do it.” 

“ That was shameful talk ! Real rowdyism ! 
Why didn’t you turn them out? But I suppose 
you encouraged them ! ” 

“They encouraged me. I never was in such a 
glow over a lesson in my life. I saw Paul, and 
felt as though I had shaken hands with him. They 
all promised to come again next Sunday. One fel- 
low said something about the man who died for 
Paul in such a way that I couldn’t see for a minute. 
After school they made a rush for Mrs. Maxim, 
and she spoke and shook hands with every one of 
them ; I think that must be why she didn’t see me. 
Last Sunday it was Max, and to-day these boys ! ” 

Miss Betsey clutched her glasses, hurried them 
on upside down and thought she was reading ; the 
eyes blinked under the red handkerchief and the 
leather slipper dangled, then followed its mate. 
The page before her was a confusion of dark spots ; 
Miss Betsey dared not stir a muscle for fear of 
betraying something. 

But Mrs. Maxim would never tell, and tortures 
should not wring it from her ! 


^^ALL BIGHT.” 


343 


When the silence had lasted as long as she felt 
that she could bear it, Selah spoke ; his words were 
far enough away from her fears unless “Diana” 
had suggested them. 

“ Imagine Paul caring for what the critics might 
write about his Epistles to the Ephesians ! I wish 
I was like him ; he was a small man, too ; and he 
had a thorn in his flesh.” 

“ But he couldn’t go to Florida and get rid of it 
as you can,” interpreted literal Miss Betsey. 

“If I didn’t know to the contrary I should think 
you wanted to get rid of me.” 

“ I’m glad you know to the contrary,” she an- 
swered, deceitfully, for, oh, how relieved she would 
be to have him start for Florida to-night I “ You 
are like him ; you don’t believe in getting married.” 

Miss Betsey coughed and dived into the depth of 
her pocket for mustard seed,. 

“ He believed in other folks getting married ; so 
do I.” 

“ I don’t see why you can’t be like other folks.” 

“ Paul wasn’t ; but that isn’t to the point.” 

“ I don’t see what is to the point.” 

“Suppose for the sake of the argument, Betsey, 
we agree that there isn’t any point.” 

“ I’m willing enough to say that the thing I don’t 
see 


344 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


The silk handkerchief fluttered over Selah’s 
laughing mouth; Miss Betsey’s humorous wrinkles 
deepened. 

“ I don’t like the way it feels to be old and not 
have enough to live for,” Selah burst out; “when 
a man is young he is hopeful, but when he is old — ” 

“ Who is old? Not you, Selah Gunn ! ” 

“I’m not as old as you are.” 

“ Think of Greatgrandmother.” 

“ But I’m a poor stick at sixty.” 

“ Nobody has gone through the woods and then 
picked you up,” was the consoling reply. 

“ The same might be remarked of yourself, only 
that you are too ancient to have it apply,” he re- 
turned composedly; “that I have not married may 
be the mistake of my life, but it certainly is the 
blessing of some woman’s life.” 

“You’d be a better husband than half the hus- 
bands if you didn’t scatter your ashes around,” 
relented Miss Betsey. 

“ If this weather keeps on I shall hustle back to 
where I can sit on the veranda in January — I don’t 
like to leave those boys, though. Nor you, when 
it comes to that. I shall make you go with me ; 
you would renew your youth.” 

“ Old age is good enough for me,” muttered 


ALL bight: 


345 


Miss Betsey, who passed sleepless nights in fear of 
being forced to leave her house and her kitchen 
and go to Florida. “People who have any spunk 
can bear cold weather.” 

“You see, Betsey, I’ve sat here and thought it 
all out ; why was not the thorn put into Paul’s 
soul?” 

“ It pricked through to his soul, I’ll warrant.” 

“ The flesh has its part in the discipline of the 
spirit, and when I get tired of my flesh, as I am 
to-night, the consolation is that I must endure it 
for the sake of my immortal spirit.” 

“ And you only sixty ! I’d be ashamed.” 

“ I am,” he answered, meekly. “ There’s a bit 
of work to be done in Brooktown ; I wonder how 
Paul would start about it.” 

“Boxing them boys’ ears, I hope,” said Miss 
Betsey, devoutly. 

“ I don’t know the New Testament Greek for 
‘plucky’ and ‘grit,’ but I guess it’s there. If I 
had half an ounce of it I wouldn’t feel as limp as 
I do to-night. Paul was never in my fix.” 

“ He had too much common sense.” 

“You are right there.” 

“ Poor boy ! ” groaned his sister mentally, won- 
dering if there were anything in her, or her life, or 


846 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


in this house, or in this room, to give him one spark 
of consolation. 

The room was filled, crowded even, with articles 
that were her pride and consolation; it was a snug 
little home, and he had enough to live on, but what 
was that ? 

It was everything to her ; her night’s rest, her 
coffee and cakes, her morning work, her substantial 
dinner, her afternoon’s sewing, or making calls, or 
going out to tea, or having somebody come to tea, 
and the short evening home close to the fire, with 
a good light and old Sukey in purring content at her 
feet ; and then her feather bed and blankets, with 
a hot soapstone for her feet and a cup of cold tea 
at her bedside to taste of when her throat was dry 
in the night, were all that she asked of life, and 
she got it and was satisfied. 

And then Sunday came so often with its some- 
thing better. The longer nap Sunday morning, 
the rarity of beefsteak for breakfast and a chicken 
for dinner, with church-going when it was not too 
cold or too warm, and the Sunday-school book in 
the afternoon after her nap, and the book and a 
chapter in the Bible in the evening. 

But what was this to Selah? He had it all, and 


^‘ALL right: 


347 


more, and still he was “ limp ” and hankering after 
something high out of his reach. 

He could not curl up like old Sukey at her feet, 
and eat, and sleep, and rest all winter. 

Men were such restless creatures ; and men as 
young and spry as Selah (all ]3ut his asthma) were 
naturally ambitious. 

“ Do you wish you had stayed in Florida, Selah?” 
she inquired, with unusual hesitation. 

“iVb.'” was the loud, gruff answer. 

“ But you were not so limp there.” 

‘‘ How do you know I wasn’t ? ” 

“ You never said so,” she replied, meekly. 

“ I haven’t said a thousand things, Betsey Ann, 
which are nevertheless true.” 

Her eyes settled upon the silk handkerchief. 

“ What would you like to do in BrooktowYi ? ” 

“ Something worth doing. I have been an idler, 
nothing but a vagabond and an idler in the Lord’s 
vineyard ever since he called me into it and prom- 
ised me a penny a day. I’ve had the penny and 
I’ve shirked. 

Max Trum^an, unbeliever as he pretends to be, 
looks out for somebody beside himself; and Mrs. 
Maxim, only a woman, keeps busy and keeps other 
people busy, to say nothing of the Atwaters and 


348 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


dozens of others, and here I sit with my feet to the 
fire, grumbling about my lot in life ! 

“An old heathen began to study Greek at 
seventy, and I’m ten good years short of that, 
thank God ! ” he said with fervor. 

“Just now you wanted to get rid of your flesh,” 
muttered Miss Betsey, inaudibly. 

Giving a fierce jerk to a troublesome end of the 
silk handkerchief, he brought to view a reddened 
face with beads of perspiration on his bald head, 
but with determination in the pressure of his thin 
lips and purpose in the gleam of his gray eyes. 

Not knowing exactly what to say, and for the 
first time in her life not willing to hazard a reply. 
Miss Betsey dropped her book, stumbled over 
Sukey, and opening the air-tight door, crowded 
some dry pieces among the burning brands. 

“It’s about as hot here as Florida now,” she 
ventured. 

“ Nothing on earth but my selfish laziness keeps 
me back. When Christ said ‘ Follow me,’ James, 
and John, and Peter followed him.” 

“ So did the multitude. But they followed him 
to see what he would do next; not to do something 
themselves,” commentated Miss Betsey. 

“ That’s the way I’ve followed — in an uncertain. 


ALL RIGHT” 


349 


shaky, shabby sort of fashion, and Fm downright 
ashamed and repentant. I wish I was one of those 
boys so I could begin again.” 

Miss Betsey’s amazement took the unprecedented 
form of muteness ; she fastened the stove door ex- 
pressively, and went back to her book and lamp. 
But nothing in the story equaled the interest 
Selah’s life had newly awakened, and she laid it 
aside with a sigh of helplessness; she acknowl- 
edged to herself that there did seem to be nothing 
to say. She might advise him to unburden himself 
to the minister or Dr. Atwater; it was such a queer 
way for a “ professor ” to talk ! 

“Can’t you wait till spring?” she inquired at 
last, with a dim notion that the uneasiness of mind 
would wear off before that time ; “ it isn’t right 
for you to expose yourself.” 

His ejaculation sounded like a snort ; Miss Bet- 
sey immediately retired within the citadel of her- 
self ; since she had been so brave that November 
day she had felt herself a dreadful coward. 

It was so terrible at her age to have a secret. 

“ I shall wait ; you needn’t be afraid ; I haven’t 
spunk enough left to do much,” he said, sarcas- 
tically. 

“ I guess it’s that southern climate,” hazarded 
Miss Betsey. 


350 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ If those boys will only come every Sunday ! 
That’s a beginning.” 

“Yes, if they will,” doubted Miss Betsey. 

“ And Dr. Atwater wants to get me into tem- 
perance work.” 

“ I dare say.” 

“And, oh, Betsey,” giving the handkerchief a 
toss over his head, “ I did hear some news to-day ! ” 

“You did! And you have kept me in suspense 
all this time.” 

“ It doesn’t concern us.” 

“ Anything that concerns my neighbor concerns 
me,” said Miss Betsey, with dignity. 

“ Besides, I don’t tattle like a woman.” 

Miss Betsey meekly waited. 

“ Max Truman told me. I saw the girls hud- 
dling like so many kittens around her, and after 
she didn’t see me on the walk I caught up with 
Max ; he and Rose Smiley were sauntering 'along, 
talking nonsense, I dare say — I didn’t think it rude 
to interrupt them although Rose did blush up — and 
I asked her if there was anything new going on in 
her class, and Max said it was two or three days 
old; that she was going away before next Sun- 
day—” 

“ Who ? Rose Smiley ! I didn’t know you cared 
whether she went or stayed.” 


ALL right: 


351 


“ Did I say Rose Smiley ? ” he demanded, indig- 
nantly. 

“ You didn’t say anybody.” 

“Yes, I did; I said Mrs. Maxim. She has had 
a letter from her grand relatives. The girls are all 
going to say good-by to her to-morrow night.” 

Painfully and vividly conscious that she felt 
faint, and suffocated, and glad, and relieved, and 
sorry, all in one swift, hot sensation. Miss Betsey 
attempted no reply; now Selah would never know! 

“ She is going for good, he said — it will be good 
for somebody, I know. Where do you suppose it 
is?” 

“ To her aunt’s — Auntie Holbrook she calls her.” 

“ No ; it is not.” 

“To Judge Maxim’s, then! That’s where she 
belongs. And I’m glad she’s going.” 

And then Miss Betsey stroked Sukey, and asked 
her if she had had enough supper, and coaxed her 
out into the kitchen with the promise of a chicken 
bone. 

The eyes blinked under the silk handkerchief, 
the thin, strong lips moved unsteadily ; “ I guess 
it’s all right. Lord,” he muttered. 


XX. 


TWO PAPERS. 

That same Sunday evening, the last Sunday of 
the old year, her blessed old year, Grace sat alone 
before the large, handsome stove in the Baron’s 
room ; beside the stove there were few changes 
since the day she became Greatgrandmother’s 
boarder ; the changes she delighted in were within 
herself. 

When she looked at the reflection oi herself in 
the glass, she wondered that these changes had 
wrought no outward evidence of themselves ; but 
the face was exactly the same. She said to herself 
that night that no wife, no mother, no woman in a 
full home could be happier than herself, for was 
she not as full of happiness as she could hold ? 

Had not her prayer been answered ? 

Was she not a channel tlirough which good was 
flowing ? 

It may be thought a very simple thing that made 
her so full of sweetest content; on the table be- 
side her were two handsomely illustrated Sunday- 
( 352 ) 


TWO PAPEES. 


353 


school papers, each containing one of her “ Talks 
to Girls.” 

She intended to read them to her girls to-morrow 
evening ; they would see the papers two or three 
months later, but she wished them to have her 
presence and the sound of her voice in these two 
at least. 

Not only to her own girls would she talk, but to 
how many, many others ? 

She was not leaving them ; she would meet with 
them twice every month through the new year. 
The letter from Mary, the letter so long waited for, 
so long prayed for. Max had brought to her in a 
howling snow-storm five days ago. 

It was not a long letter ; the few words in their 
penmanship betrayed the feebleness of the hand 
that so unsteadily held the pen. 

For many weeks she had been very ill ; in mis- 
taken (oh ! how mistaken) kindness. Aunt Horatia 
had kept Grace’s letter from her ; to her frequent 
and feverish inquiry, “ Has not Grace written to 
me ? ” the reply was the same, a decided “ No.” 

Other letters were given to her, but with the 
advice of the physician still it was withheld ; Aunt 
Horatia had told him that the writer of certain let- 
ters excited her and brought on fever even in her 
23 


354 FROM FLAX TO LINFN. 

ordinary health. (Aunt Horatia meant well — Aunt 
Horatia loved her — she had no one else to love.) 

After her will was made neither John nor Aunt 
Horatia seemed to care whether she saw the letter 
or not ; one night when she did not think she 
would live through the night she told John some- 
thing she had never dared tell him or any one be- 
fore ; she had promised her father that his “ poor 
wife ” should be handsomely provided for ; that 
Riverside should belong to her if she died first. 

It was not long before he died ; he seemed to 
remember that, somehow, she had been wronged. 

With her father’s face looking down upon her, 
and the fear of meeting him in the other world 
with her solemn promise unkept, she had dared to 
speak at last. 

While she lived Grace shared equally with herself 
in everything her father had left to her ; when she 
died, it would all be hers. In the meantime would 
she come back and take a position she had never 
had — the mistress of Riverside? Her father’s wife 
should be honored as she had never been honored. 

“ Now that I am brave, I am very brave.” 

Would she send a telegram when she would 
come ? She was not strong enough to wait for the 
suspense of a letter. 


TWO PAPERS. 


355 


In twenty minutes after the letter was read the 
telegram was on its way; the next mail the letter 
followed it. 

Ben and Emily were married on Christmas Day. 

Emily , was married in the room in which her 
greatgrandmother was married ; she wore the satin 
slippers fretted at the toes that the other Emily 
Achsah wore ; but this modern bride and groom 
did something greatgrandmother and greatgrand- 
father never thought of doing — they went on a 
wedding journey; and this Sunday evening, as 
Miss Betsey and Brother Selah sat by their air- 
tight and talked, and Grace sat before her fire and 
mused and thought, they sat side by side in a 
church not far from the White House — Ben as 
proud as he could be, and Emily as happy as she 
wanted to be. 

It did seem queer that the minister’s text should 
be about Jesus taking the loaves ; Emily was glad 
because it brought many memories to sweeten her 
gladness. 

I think it would help you to understand some- 
thing of Grace’s way of talking to her girls if I 
should copy for you the articles in the two papers 
on her table ; they are as simple, direct and unpre- 
tending as she is herself ; while you have the biog- 


356 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


raphy (and autobiography) of the author, you may 
care to see some of her writings. 

She would smile to see her small beginnings 
styled “writings.” 

The first she called 

“ SPECIAL WORK. 

“In that home in Nazareth where Jesus our Lord 
was the son, who among you would not be glad to 
think of yourself as his sister ? 

“ To have such protecting love and companion- 
ship, to have such sympathetic help about every 
vexation and bewildermdtit, to have such answers 
as he would love to give to every question that 
perplexed girlhood likes to ask — would you not be 
glad that you were thought about and sent into the 
world if you might have such honor and such hap- 
piness? But why think of it? You were not his 
little sister ; you never can be. Are you not ? 
May you not be ? , 

“ The Lord never spoke lightly ; every word of 
his was freighted with a deeper hope for you than 
you can understand — a hope into which you will 
grow. 

“ You remember that time that his mother and 
his brethren sent unto him, calling him, and he 


TWO PAPERS. 


357 


sent an answer unto them, looking around about 
on those who sat about him as he spoke : ‘ Behold 
my mother and my brethren ! For whosoever 
shall do the will of God, the same is my brother 
and my sister and mother.’ 

“ Perhaps among those crowded around them 
were many girls like you, watching his face and 
listening — oh, how eagerly ! — to catch some word 
especially for them ; and was this not for them ? 
The older women were his mothers, but the girls, 
not as old as Mary his mother, were his sisters. 

“Was that all they had to do to be his sister — to 
sit at his feet and listen as Mary, the sister of Laz- 
arus, sat and listened? Yes, if they listened as 
she did. 

“ ‘ Bo the will of God^ 

“ That is the test, that is the preparation — obe- 
dience to the will of God, the Father of our Lord 
Jesus Christ. 

“ I hope I am talking to many who are already 
his sisters — who have done the will of God a long 
time, and are continually learning it and loving it. 

“ But if I am talking to one who is not his sister, 
will you not become his sister by doing God’s will 
before you read another word? And then we will 
all go on together, for I want to take you on. 


358 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Remember, he says we must do. 

“ What is the first thing you must do ? 

“Believe that God sent Jesus Christ, his Son, 
into this world to teach you the will of God, and 
it is his will that you should believe every word 
Christ speaks, and do it. When I was a girl about 
fourteen I stood one Sunday afternoon at a window 
reading the book I had brought home from Sunday- 
school. I was so absorbed that I almost held my 
breath. The book was ‘ Judah’s Lion,’ by Charlotte 
Elizabeth — the story of an English Jewish boy 
traveling in the Holy Land, when he said : ‘ I be- 
lieve that Jesus Christ is the Messiah ’ ; I believed 
it, too, with all my heart, and soul, and strength. 
I had known about him ever since I was a little 
girl. Had any one asked me if I believed that 
Jesus Christ, who lived in Nazareth and healed 
people, and taught them, and died there on the 
cross, was the Son of God, I do not know what I 
should have said, but I knew joyfully at that mo- 
ment ; with the Jewish boy I learned about him in 
the Old Testament and the New, and I believed 
and loved him ; I did not know that I might be his 
little sister, but he knew it. 

“ I believed him, I loved him ; I did not think 


TWO PAPERS, 


359 


at first about obeying him, but do you think love 
ever wilfully or consciously disobeys ? 

“You have all heard some one remark : ‘ How like 
her brother she is ! ’ I know a girl who is very 
proud of her brother ; he is handsome and intel- 
lectual, and has written a book that critics speak 
well of. She visited friends in Albany for the first 
time — friends who knew her brother — and is very 
proud of saying that a stranger exclaimed : ‘ That 
is John Maynard’s sister ; I knew it as soon as I 
looked at her.’ 

“ Do you not think the Lord’s sisters may as 
easily be recognized ? 

“ Do you know that girl who talks slang and 
points her witticisms with a quotation from the 
Bible, Christ’s own words, it may be? Do you 
think of her as the Lord’s sister? And the one 
who danced twenty-four times last night, and is 
too tired to-day to help her mother or do anything 
for her brothers, and if she does not rest to-day 
cannot go to prayer-meeting to-night ? 

“ (Are you smiling ? I speak only of the girls I 
know.) 

“Did you ever hear Julia call her mother a 
‘ broomstick,’ or hear Sarah say that she ‘ hated ’ 
her home and wished she were out of it ? 


360 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Louise said yesterday that it was a shame for 
old Mrs. Harris to die and leave her beautiful 
house ; she often thought what was the good of 
living when one has to die so soon. 

“ Mary told me last week that she wanted money- 
more than anything else. 

“ Harriet says, ‘ Emerson says,’ till her friends 
are sick and tired of it. Did any one ever hear 
her say, ‘ Christ says ? ’ 

‘‘ Nettie searched in Chronicles for something 
Paul said, and wondered why she could not find it. 

“ But you are saying, ‘ These girls are not the 
Lord’s sisters.’ I hope they are, every one of them. 

“ He did not say, ‘ The same is my wise sister, 
my faultless sister, the sister who never grieves me, 
who never makes mistakes, whom I never rebuke, 
who always pleases me.’ 

“ Was not Peter his brother? — poor Peter whom 
he rebuked thirteen times, sorrowful Peter who 
denied him, and John who fled when the others 
fled? He asked them — these whom he called his 
brothers — why their hearts were yet hardened, and 
called them ‘ O ye of little faith.’ 

“ You are not his grown-up sisters. Do you re- 
member how tenderly he speaks of the ‘little ones 
who believe in me?’ 


TWO PAPERS. 


361 


“ The first thing for you is to believe, 

“ The second thing for you is to learn, 

“ And the third thing for you is to do, 

“ He does not say that we are his sisters until we 
do. We cannot do until we have believed and 
learned. But you do believe and you are learning. 

“ The first thing required of us after we have 
learned a thing is to do it. 

“ Do you know something that you have not 
done yet ? Do it to-day. If I were you I would 
begin to do it immediately, before I waited to learn 
another thing. 

“ In these papers I wish to talk with you about 
the will of God for the little sisters of our Lord — 
what you must learn, what you must be and what 
you must do to do his will. I am sure we shall find 
that no hour of the day is left out, that no desire 
is untouched, that no question can be asked but 
that it can find a satisfactory answer. 

“ If I should ask you what should the sisters of 
the Lord be like, you would answer, ‘Like him.^ 

“ But God sent Christ into the world to be differ- 
ent, somehow, from every one else ; he gave him 
his special work and will to do. You cannot see 
how you can be ‘ like ’ him in that. 

“ Do you remember what Christ said when he 


362 


. FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


was praying for you (I know he was praying for 
you, because he said, ‘ Neither pray I for these 
alone, but for them also which shall believe on me 
through their word’)? He said, ‘As thou hast 
sent me into the world, even so have I also sent 
them into the world.’ 

“ You belong to Christ; you are nearer to him 
and dearer than any sister ever was to any brother, 
and he has sent you into the world — into your own 
home — for this one reason, that you may learn God’s 
will and do it. 

“ That is all Christ did on earth ; that was his 
special work, and that is your special work.” 

The title of the second was : 

“ABOUT BEING FED. 

“ Did you ever imagine what the Lord would say 
to you if he should come into your home and abide 
awhile? He entered the home of a Jewish maiden 
one day that he might see her and speak to her, and 
after he had taken her by the hand and spoken to 
her he gave one command concerning her. What 
would that be likely to be, do you think ? The 
maiden was the daughter of Jairus, and the 
Saviour’s touch arid voice had brought her back 
from the dead. Did he say that she must go to 


TWO PAPEBS. 


363 


her fa-ther’s synagogue and give thanks that she 
was brought back to life ? that she must go to the 
high priest at Jerusalem and offer a sacrifice of 
thanksgiving? that she must follow him about and 
minister unto him, as we read that many loving 
women did ? No ; it was nothing that she must 
do ; it was something that must be done for her. 
When he took her by the hand, she arose and 
walked. A moment ago she lay dead; now the 
life rushed through her brain and her heart, and 
her feet had power to lift themselves and to walk. 
Was she faint as she stood? Did she need yet 
more strength ? How thoughtful the Lord was of 
her ! Her father was there — the father who had 
gone to the Lord and besought him for her — yet 
the Lord did not leave it to the father to think of 
feeding her. Perhaps he was so overcome with 
joy that he could not think of anything that 
needed to be done ; perhaps he thought that the 
Lord had done all. I think the Jewish maiden 
must have loved the Lord for thinking of that, and 
what she ate must have tasted as nothing else ever 
did. I hope the father and the mother remem- 
bered that the Lord who gave her this new life 
commanded that it should be fed. 

“ I am sure that this same Jesus has visited your 


364 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


home ; I am sure that he has spoken to you ; I am 
sure that he has said to you, ‘ Damsel, arise ! ’ 
Have you obeyed as that other one did? Have 
you heard his voice ? She was dead, and so were 
you. It does sound queer, but you and I were 
born dead, and we cannot have any life until Christ 
gives it to us. We were born sinners, and we have 
sinned besides, and Christ forgives us and makes 
us alive and bids us arise. We are not made 
strong, we are made alive ; and we need oh ! so 
much feeding to make us strong. Father and 
mother, pastor and Sunday-school teacher, can give 
you something to eat, but they cannot eat it for 
you ; you must eat for yourself as really as this 
Jewish girl. Had they laid bread in her hand, 
would it have nourished her ? 

“May we not think of this girl saying to herself, 
‘ The Lord has given me life ; I can grow up and 
learn and work, be a comfort to my father, who 
brought him to me, and I can learn all about him 
and what he would have me do all these years that 
he has given me ? ’ Is not that something to live 
for — to give to the Lord the life he has given to 
you ? And that it may be a strong life it must be 
nourished ; it must be nourished by his truth as 
really as the girl was nourished by food. 


TWO PAPERS. 


365 


“ The truth is given to you ; you do not have 
to earn it, or buy it, or go out and search for it. 
Everything that is true is truth, but some truth is 
worth very little to you ; without other truth your 
soul must starve, even as this girl, although raised 
from the dead, would have starved had she never 
had something to eat. You know where the truth 
is to be found ; every word Christ spoke is truth. 
I wish you would promise yourself that you will 
learn one of Christ’s truths every day, and never 
forget or neglect it, except on the morning that you 
forget or neglect your breakfast. Christ gives you 
something to eat everyday. I know a lady who 
has asked ten girls to learn two Bible verses every 
day. If they love them, and understand them, 
and do them, will they not be fed ? If you pray, 
‘ Lord, feed me,’ before you take it, are you not 
sure that he will ? ‘ 

“ By Christ’s truths I do not mean only the words 
that he spoke himself, for we know that his apostles 
wrote his truth as the Holy Spirit taught them. 
When I was a small maiden, I learned Bible verses 
and gave them my own interpretation. For in- 
stance : I went home from school with a school- 
mate one afternoon because I had read in the 
morning, ‘ If one compel you to go a mile, go with 


366 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


him twain/ She asked me to go, and I thought I 
should be disobeying God if I refused. And once, 
when some one took away a slate loaned to me, 1 
was comforted by thinking that I was ‘ persecuted 
for righteousness’ sake.’ And all the comfort I 
found in the knowledge that the hairs of my head 
were all numbered was in being afraid to pull one 
out for fear, as God had numbered them, he would 
know it, and think I had not the right number in 
my head. 

“ And many an unhappy night I dared not repeat 
‘ forever ’ in the Lord’s prayer, believing that the 
dreadful word sealed my fate throughout all the 
unknown ‘forever,’ and if I were not to go to 
heaven, how dared I say it and send myself to 
hell? 

“ (I must have been a very stupid child ; you 
see how I needed to be fed.) 

“And even after I had outgrown this mental 
cloudiness I did not see Christ’s words clearly. 

“ The wisest man may find something new in that 
prayer every time he prays it with all his heart and 
intellect. 

“ I was too timid to ask questions ; therefore I 
groped in the dark when I might have walked in 
the light. 


TWO PAPERS. 


367 


“ (Ask questions and you will be fed with wise 
answers.) 

“ Once indeed I did summon courage to ask my 
Sunday-school teacher if the wise men who brought 
gifts to the infant Jesus and the shepherds watch- 
ing their flocks were the same men. The laugh 
that greeted me (but how could she help it?) 
effectually checked any further questioning ; I sup- 
pose the question was too funny to be answered. 

“ Perhaps I was too inconsiderate in asking you 
to learn one of Christ’s words every day ; I have 
asked you to do what I do not do every day myself. 

“ Sometimes I am fed so full with one truth that 
I love to keep it in my heart longer than a day 
before I learn another. 

“ Try to get all you can out of each truth for 
yourself; digest it for yourself; a little that you 
thus find for yourself will nourish you more than 
a great deal that some one else thinks out for you. 

“ Think each thought or fact over as intelligently 
as you do your history lesson, or the story in your 
Sunday-school book. 

“ God gave you your common sense to under- 
stand Christ’s words with. 

“ Some girls (and some grown people) do not 
feel as ashamed of not understanding the Bible as 


368 


FEOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


they do of not understanding a lesson at school ; 
they will not feel embarrassed over forgetting or 
never having learned a fact concerning one of the 
kings of Israel, and would be ‘ awfully ashamed ’ 
if they had never heard of King John and Magna 
Charta. 

“ (Girls, it’s very queer about us.) 

“ Christ commands you to be fed that you may 
grow, and grow strong to do some work for him. 

“ If you are not strong, how can you be strong 
enough to do some special work ? 

“ And when you are fed yourself you will have 
something to give ; that is the most blessed part of 
being fed. 

“ I wish each one of you would copy this from 
Phillips Brooks: ‘It is good for us to think that no 
grace or blessing is truly ours till we are aware 
that God has blessed some one else with it through 
us.’ 

“ Do not think that this being fed from Christ’s 
words in the Bible is the only way that you are 
fed ; it is the sweetest way; it is Christ’s sure word 
given to you by the Holy Spirit. 

“ Can you think of any other way that you are 
fed ? 

“ You are fed by everything that God wills or 


TWO PAPERS. 


369 


permits to happen to you — but sometimes you 
throw it away and will not be fed. 

“If God’s love, and wisdom, and forethought 
(he knew you would read this before you were 
born, and he knew whether you would be fed by it 
or not), plan your days and direct every one of 
your steps, is he not speaking to you every hour 
and every way ? 

“ (Be still, not forcing your own way, and listen, 
and you will hear. No matter if you cannot put 
it into words.) 

“ You are fed in praying to him, and in every 
thought you think about him. 

“ O how you should grow with so much feeding! 

“God’s Word is full of simple, easy truths for 
you to learn and obey. 

“ I hope that you and I may learn many of them 
together, and do them, although not together — but 
aren’t we working together ? 

“ ‘ Give us this day our daily bread.’ 

“ The Lord gave that prayer for this Jewish girl, 
and for you, American girls, and this very day you 
are as near to him as she was. 

“ She heard his voice and came to life. 

“ Will you not hear it and come to his eternal 
life?” 


24 


XXL 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 

Her writing-table stood in front of the stove ; 
her chair was drawn close to it ; she leaned forward 
in her girlish fashion, her elbows on the table and 
her chin dropped into her warm, pink palms ; she 
had wrapped herself in a thick gray wrapper, and 
taken down her hair ; she was the very picture of 
comfort. 

Her watch on the table indicated midnight ; she 
had thrown herself upon the bed and slept from 
eight until twelve, and then roused herself to reply 
to the twenty-seven notes her girls had pressed into 
her hand that day ; she had promised to reply as 
truly and frankly as she knew how to any question 
they might ask, and have the notes ready for them 
Monday evening. 

Monday morning must be given to Miss Betsey, 
and Monday afternoon was to be devoted to pack- 
ing ; Tuesday morning, in the early train, she had 
planned to start for Riverside. 

Max had asked her why her work in Brooktown 
( 370 ) 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


371 


was not sufficient reason for refusing this invita- 
tion. 

“ It is not simply an invitation, Max ; I am going 
home.” 

‘‘But,” he persisted, “you put the Lord’s work 
(as you call it) first ; don’t you think your admi- 
ration, St. Paul, would have considered these 
clamorous boys and girls, and other people ? ” 

“ One time at Ephesus he did not consider some 
clamorous people ; when they desired him to stay 
he consented not. It was the Jews with whom he 
had reasoned, and if they did not need Paul, who 
did? 

“ He bade them farewell and said : ‘ I must hy all 
means keep this feast that cometh in Jerusalem ; 
but I will return again to you, if God will.’ And 
so will I, if God will.” 

As she opened the note that came first to her 
hand she hoped with all her heart (and chided her- 
self for hoping) that it might never be his will for 
her to come and stay at Brooktown. 

Two of her girls were ill; Emily was away; her 
class for the last month had numbered thirty. 

Mrs. Atwater, with many misgivings, had prom- 
ised to take it again. 


372 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEX, 


“ It will not be thirty long,” she had bemoaned 
to her husband ; “girls do not stick to me.” 

She pondered the first question, and then began 
to write rapidly. The questioner was a timid, hesi- 
tating little soul, with no one at home to ask ques- 
tions of ; there was scarcely a Sunday that she did 
not linger to whisper to Grace some question that 
she had not courage to ask in the class. 

“ When I am praying for something^ ought I to do 
anything about it ? ” 

“ ‘ Open thy mouth wide and I will fill it ’ does 
not necessarily mean that we are to do nothing 
beside open our mouths. 

“It may be that he has made your hands to lift 
to your mouth. 

“ It maybe that he has made your hands to work 
for the good thing to lift to your mouth. He has 
given you two hands to work with and one mouth 
to fill. 

“ If I were you I would use my common sense. 
Common sense is his gift as well as faith. 

“ Do not rush ahead in doing ; do not, above all 
things, take it for granted that your prayer is 
answered before it is answered. 

“ I did that once and made a goose of myself. 


T\]^NTY-EIGHT. 


373 


Ask him what he will have you do about it. There 
are times when we can do nothing. 

“ God must do all ; but more times he is willing 
and glad to give his answer through our help. 

“ The Holy Spirit prompts the prayer and makes 
intercession — Christ intercedes also, and presents 
our prayers when asked in his name ; God answers, 
giving in his good time ; what do you do ? 

“ You ask. And you do every other right thing 
that is right for you to do about it at that time. 

“ I cannot tell you (even if I knew) without 
knowing all the circumstances, what to do and 
what to refrain from doing. 

“ My trouble has been in doing too much. 

“ Yours may be in doing too little. 

“ Pray for judgment and understanding; that is 
the way to get more common sense than you are 
born with. 

“ Ask God the same questions you ask me ; ask 
him this question. Ask him to show you his 
answers in the Bible. The questions and answers 
of the Bible is the best subject you can study. 

“ Before David said: ‘ He inclined unto me and 
heard my cry,’ he said : ‘ I waited patiently for the 
Lord.’ 

“ That is one thing to do about it.” 


374 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


She smiled over the next question; it was so 
like rude, blunt Mary Hopkins. 

“ Am I false if I do not always show the worst of 
myself? ” 

“ Is not the best in you as true as the worst? 

“ Are you not false if you do not always show 
the best fh yourself ? 

“ Do not glory in the frankness of showing your 
worst self. Keep to yourself anything that will 
harm another. Your unconscious influence (and 
mine) is bad enough ; do not let us consciously 
influence by revealing the worst in us. 

“ Never be afraid that people will not see how 
bad you are; that shows itself without any effort. 

“ A girl I knew had one arm shorter than the 
other ; she never tried to hide it by any device, but 
seemed to take a grim, rebellious pride in alluding 
to it. How much happier she would have been had 
she adapted her right hand to the deficienc}^ of her 
left, and left it to keen eyes to notice — she used to 
make us so uncomfortable that we soon ceased to 
pity her. 

“ Another girl I knew (I have known many girls) 
grew so sweet under a humiliating disfigurement 
that it was like Paul’s thorn — a means of grace. 

“ May grace so sweeten your natural self that 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


375 


your natural self may be your sweetest self. Do 
not have any worst self any longer than you can. 
Be true, be sweet, be frank, be grateful, and show 
it. Give your worst self to God’s keeping.” 

Before opening each envelope she held it in her 
hand before the Lord. 

“ My little sister died when she was two years 
old. It almost killed me ; but it hurt me more 
when mother said yesterday : ‘ I shall be so glad 
to find my Baby (we always called her that) in 
heaven.’ 

“ I do not want to find her a baby; I want her 
to know how Jesus loves her, and how he died for 
her ; I want her to love him, not as a baby, but as 
I do. I want her to grow up in heavenP 

“ So do I, dear. I want my two darlings to grow 
up in heaven. 

“ Do you not remember that when Jesus laid his 
hands on the little children who were brought to 
him, he prayed? 

“ He prayed for them. His prayer must have 
been answered. Do you think he desired less for 
them than their mothers did ? 

“ Do you think a child can live in his presence 
and not grow — grow up ? 


376 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


‘‘ Do you not believe that to-day she loves, him, 
and knows more about him than you do ? 

“ I think you can trust your darling with him. 

“ Had she lived on the earth she would have 
learned about him; can she learn less in heaven?” 

More than one tear dropped on the sheet ; Uttle 
Goldenhair was his baby to-night, and her boy 
knew more of the Lord than she could ever Lave 
taught him. Was not the Holy Spirit in heaven, 
also ? 

“ How can I help being so ignorant about every- 
thing f ” 

Poor Harriet! In the mill all day, busy at home 
evenings ; when was her time to study? 

“ ‘ I would not have you to be ignorant.’ 

“ You will find those words in the Bible. 

“ There are some things we must know. 

“ Only one thing takes away ignorance as light 
takes away darkness — knowledge; and that is sim- 
ply knowing something. 

“ You cannot know without learning ; and you 
cannot learn . without taking trouble. Decide what 
you want to know, and then take the pains to learn 
it. Mrs. Atwater will be glad to help you. After 
I go home I will send you books — not to read, but 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


377 


to study. you sit sewing, learn by heart the 
places I will mark for you. 

“ Go to Mrs. Atwater as freely as you come to 
me.” 

“ Who will help me after you are gone ? ” 

Surely enough, who would ? Poor, bright An- 
nie, with her quick temper and loving heart. 
In the mill all day, in her untidy home at night, 
with an intemperate father, an unmotherly step- 
mother, and a brother who lived upon the street 
corners. 

“Annie Houston will help you. She is twenty 
years old ; she has good health, common sense, 
energy, two willing hands, a sympathetic heart and 
a hopeful disposition. 

“ A girl like that would be a help to anybody. 

“ She has helped me many a time. 

“ She will help you to become a good woman, a 
helpful, respectful daughter ; a patient (but not 
too patient) sister. 

“ With Annie Houston as God began her, and as 
(with her help) he is every day putting a touch 
that will finish her some day, and with God your 
Father, Christ your Saviour, and the Holy Spirit, 
Comforter, Sanctifier, to lead you into all truth, 
whom do you need beside ? 


378 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Aren’t you rich in helpers ? 

“Harriet Knowles feels ‘ignorant.’ Can you 
not help her to study ? Can you not read and 
talk over something to help you both ? 

“ Help somebody else. Help Ned. He likes 
music — sing with him. And, dear, don’t let him 
be any more dirty and ragged than you can help. 

“ He wouldn’t come with Max Truman’s boys 
because he was so ragged ; begin with the outside 
of him. Mend for him, and exact some service in 
return. Who helps 

“ Ought I to make up with Annie Houston first ? ” 

“ ‘ Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, for- 
giving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake 
hath forgiven you.’ 

“ Did Christ make up with you first ? 

“We love him because he first loved us.” 

“ I am worried about something that I cannot tell 
you about because I have promised to keep it secret ; 
what shall I do ? ” 

“ A secret that worries you, Mattie, cannot be a 
safe one ; a thing that is not safe for you to hold, 
you must get rid of. 

“ Ask the other secret holder to release you. 

“ If in the nature of it you cannot be released 
you must bear it ; but do not allow it to lead you 


TWENTY-EIGHT, 


379 


into deceit. Stop there. Keep your mouth shut if 
you must, and you do not a greater wrong in keep- 
ing it shut — hut do nothing else to keep it safe ; 
do no wrong thing to keep it safe ; do not lie, do 
not deceive. 

“ If you cannot tell me you can tell him from 
whom no secret is hidden. 

“ Promising never to tell before you are told is 
like shutting your eyes and opening your mouth to 
take whatever may be thrust into it — in either case 
you must trust — and it is folly to trust one whom 
you do not know to be safe. 

“ (Don’t rush into friendships and confidences.) 

‘‘ I am very sorry for you. You know I would 
help you if I could. Demand to be released if you 
cannot hold your secret faithfully and yet honora- 
bly. (I had a secret once and I told a lie about 
it.)” 

“ How much ought I to give f I do give five cents 
in Sunday-school, and I cannot afford to give any- 
thing in church.” 

“ Paul speaks of those who first gave their own 
selves to the Lord. 

“ Have you first given yourself ? 

“ Without this first giving the other is no giving 
at all. 


380 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN 


“ Give all when you give first. 

“ Then the exact number of dollars and cents 
will not matter to you — or to the Lord. 

“ I do not believe John worried about how much 
he dropped into the treasury — and think of Paul 
asking whether he should give one denarius or two 
out of his day’s wages as tentmaker ! 

“ Your hands are his, and your very breath. 

“ He has it all, any way.” 

“ How great things may I ask in 'prayer ” 

“As great things as he has promised. As great 
as he has promised to you. 

“And yet the Syrophenician mother asked some- 
thing that was not promised to her — she was even 
told that it was not promised to her. 

“ Did she get it ? ” 

“ What makes a thing Ciod's will ? ” 

For a while Grace sat with her head bowed on 
her hands. What a question for Margaret Grey to 
ask. But what questions these girls had learned 
to ask. 

Mrs. Atwater told her she had the flower of 
Brooktown ; Margaret’s father was a mill owner ; 
she had met her at Mrs. Atwater’s ; the next Sun- 
day Margaret came and asked for a place among 
her girls. 


TWENTY-EIGRT. 


381 


As she looked at the pile of envelopes she began 
to understand that her promise to answer every let- 
ter written to her meant some hard work — with her 
constantly increasing literary writing beside. 

The tea-kettle upon the back of the stove was 
singing ; one of the chimney closets had been 
emptied of books to make room for her small store 
of groceries ; tea, coffee, sugar, cream, biscuits 
and cold meat were always to be found upon the 
shelves ; it was two o’clock, and she had been 
writing and thinking absorbingly for two hours ; 
it was certainly time for an early breakfast. 

The tea drank from one of Greatgrandmother’s 
tiny cups was always delicious ; Matilda’s biscuit 
and the thin slices of cold roast beef were tempt- 
ing; her dainty lunch was taken sitting at the 
stove, with her feet upon the stove hearth; she 
gave half an hour to it, and went back to her 
writing refreshed physically and mentally. 

It was rather delightful to work thus alone, 
delightfully selfish. 

What made a thing God’s will ? 

“ A thing is God’s will for you, Margaret,” she 
wrote, “ because it is the very wisdom of his loving 
kindness for you ; so very wise that anything less 
wise would not be wise enough. 


382 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ A thing is not God’s will simply because he 
chooses it, as Nero, or Alexander, or Napoleon 
might choose ; it is not his will only that it is 
right, and true, and blessed, but that it is most 
right, most true, most blessed. 

“ His will is the choice of his wisdom. 

“ When you choose God’s will, you choose the 
wisest way in all his universe ; you choose as 
Infinite Wisdom chooses.” 

The pen paused in her fingers ; was that all she 
had to say ? Margaret did not need simplification 
or illustration. 

The next question was wilful, ease-loving Mary 
Mason’s. 

“ When I cannot do a right thing from choice^ 
ought I to do it at all f ” 

“ Why cannot you do it from choice ? 

“ You are under obligation to do it from choice ; 
the choice of choosing God’s will instead of your 
own. 

“You ought always to obey God; you ought 
always to choose to obey him. 

“ It is much harder to disobey than to obey when 
one loves God best.” 

The next question brought up the vision of sweet 
lips, sweet eyes, a sweet voice. 


TWENTY-EIGHT, 


38a 


. When you told me that I was naturally sweet,^ 
what did you mean?'^ 

“ I meant that God gave you sweetness of tem- 
per at your birth ; it is your gift of God by the 
way of nature. 

Paul speaks of the Gentiles doing ‘ hy nature 
the things of the law.’ 

“ A heathen child may love the truth and hate a 
lie ; she might hate to steal as heartily as you do ; 
she might have a disposition as sweet and loving — 
never having heard of God or Jesus Christ. But 
it is God’s gift to her as well as to you ; he has 
made you sweet as he has made the lily fragrant. 

“ Your mother told me that she never but once 
saw you angry (and then the indignation was just) ; 
even then you turned away and did not speak one 
angry word. 

“All the sweetness I have has come to me 
through prayer and pains. 

“ ‘ From the womb I sanctified thee,’ God said 
to Jeremiah. 

“ He was born sanctified as you were born 
sweet.” 

For a long time Grace held Rose Smiley’s pretty 
note in her fingers. 

“ Max does not conceal his real self ; he tells me 


384 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


fiaiikly what he believes and what he does not be- 
lieve ; and he is so good and thoughtful ; he is not 
a bit selfish ; he does so much better than he says ; 
but he reads bad books and tells me about them ; I 
do not know what to do. Tell mer 

“ For your sake, Rose, dear, I wish Max were not 
so taking, so unselfish and so thoughtful ; himself 
makes his influence over you all the harder to be 
resisted. 

“ John Hatton is an unbeliever, also — but he 
drinks and swears, and is not a gentleman ; John 
Hatton can never injure you. 

“ As a man thinketh in his heart so is he ; we 
know what Max thinks in his heart. 

“ I dread his influence over you ; I warn you 
against it, I pray against it. 

“ I know what he believes and what he does not 
believe better than you do. He has opened his 
heart to me as he never will to ^’•ou ; he says he 
will never frighten you by a peep into the chambers 
of his heart. 

“ His life is lovely and upright ; he cannot feel 
himself to be a sinner. 

“ I tremble for him ; I tremble for you because 
you are under his influence. 

“ With his lovely mother, his Christian home, his 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 385 

intellectual knowledge of the truth, he is sinning 
in the very sunshine of truth. 

“ Do not think you can save him. 

“ Beware lest you lose through him. 

“ I am very willing that he should read this ; he 
will learn nothing that I have not said to him.” 

“ Ought we to care what people think about us?" 

Self-conscious, self-depreciative Louise ; she could 
see the flush with which she wrote. 

“ Christ cared for what God thought about him. 
He said, ‘ How can ye believe which receive honor 
one from another ? ’ 

“ As if it were impossible for us to believe in 
God and receive honor from him if we were desir- 
ous of receiving honor from men. 

“If we work for the praise of men, when shall 
we work for the praise of God ? 

“ I should care very much if any one believed 
me to be untruthful ; my first thought would be, 
‘ what reason have I given ? ’ And then I should 
be so sorry and ashamed for one of the Lord’s dis- 
ciples to be thought untruthful. 

“ And so of every other evil thing. 

“ I do care for my friends to think well of me, 
for then I know, in some measure, 1 have succeeded 
in being what I pray to be, and try to be. 

25 


386 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ If people do not think well of us, how can we 
influence them for good ? 

“ Suppose some one should say of you : ‘ I would 
love to be a Christian like her.’ 

“ That is receiving honor from men to give to 
God. 

‘‘ When some one said to me ; ‘I wish I could be 
as busy as you are,’ that did me good, for she knows 
whose work I am busy about. 

“ When some one said to me about you : ‘ I want 
to do unselfish things like Susie Henderson,’ I was 
very glad for you. 

“ If you rejoice that some one thinks so well of 
you, I shall be sorry I told you. 

“ Care to do what God commands, dear Susie, 
and care that ‘ people ’ should know you try to 
keep his commandments, for thus are we bidden to 
let our light shine — to glorify ourselves ; oh, no ! — 
but to glorify our Father in heaven. 

“ And so you ought to care for what people think 
about you.” 

“ Please tell me how to keep from thinking too well 
of myself; it is shameful to confess it, but I do feel 
superior to everybody at home.” 

Grace was not surprised ; Ellen Dennis acted as 
though she felt “ superior to everybody at home.” 


TWENTY-EIGHT, 


387 


She was a bright, educated girl ; her mother had 
had few advantages, and her father boasted that 
education had done nothing for him — he had made 
himself without it. 

“ Study other people ; you will find so many 
others (even in Brooktown, to say nothing of the 
world) in every single thing in which you pride 
yourself so greatly your superior that you cannot 
but have your young self-conceit rooted out of you. 
People who think about themselves and nobody 
else are apt to think well of themselves — and 
nobody else. 

“ It is a step, Ellen, for you to acknowledge it, 
and not at all shameful to confess it ; see what you 
can find in the Bible about being wise in your own 
eyes. 

“ I had to go through a course of having it 
taken out of me (and I fear it is not all out yet) ; 
it hurts ; but it is good for us.” 

“ What shall I do if I outgrow my friends ? 

“ For years I had a friend that I loved dearly, 
but now we do not seem to care for each other — 
she loves me but I do not love her as I did — and it 
is growing worse instead of better.” 

“ I am not sure that you do, Minnie. 

“ Other girls grow beside you. 


388 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


You may be growing in one direction and your 
friend in another. 

“ Even if you do, do you think you should go 
away because you grow away ? 

‘‘ Is not your growing for her sake, also ? 

“ Would you grow away from people and seclude 
yourself ? 

“ If you are growing in grace and in knowledge, 
help her to grow. 

“ How about growing in selfishness ? 

“ Perhaps you need her to keep you from grow- 
ing one-sided. 

“ How about growing in pride ? 

“ Are you ashamed of your friend ? 

“Loving old friends need not keep us from 
making new friends.” 

“ How much of my life do I make for myself? ” 

“ Who knows ? 

“ Your life is being woven in God’s loom. 

“ God lets us do a great deal for ourselves. 

“ Every time vre do a right thing we help our- 
selves do the next right thing ; every time we do a 
wrong thing we help ourselves do the next wrong 
thing. 

“William Black says: ‘’Tis but beating one’s 
wings against the invisible to seek to know even 
to-morrow.’ 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


389 


“ Do God’s will every day and that will make 
your life to-day, to-morrow, and forever and ever.” 

Grace paused after she had slipped her note into 
its envelope and written the girl’s name upon it ; 
paused to be glad that her girls loved to ask ques- 
tions like these. 

“ Why do you talk so much about self-denial f I 
hate it; I want to say ‘yes’ to myself once in a 
while.” 

“ So do I. And I would love to be such a self 
that I can say ‘ yes ’ to. 

“ Think a year over this, and then write me what 
you make out of it : 

“ ‘ To refuse to deny one’s self is just to be left 
with the self undenied.’ 

“ How would you like to live under the same 
roof even with a child who never denied himself?” 

“ When people say that the Christian religion is 
too strict^ what ought I to say ? ” 

“ The sin of Job’s friends consisted in not speak- 
ing the truth about God.” 

“ What can prayer do for me ? ” 

“ Everything that God promises it shall do for 
you. 

“ Said some one : ‘ I might have had it if I 
hadn’t prayed ; I might have had it any wayP 


390 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ ‘ Get your blessings any way,’ I said ; ‘ I mean 
to get mine God’s way.’ 

“And oh! the thing we get is such a little 
thing^and God speaking to us in giving such a 
blessed thing.” 

“ How soon may 1 begin to look for an answer to 
frayerV* 

Could her girls ever learn enough about prayer ; 
not one Sunday had passed that one of them had 
not asked some question concerning it. 

One of the girls said to Grace : “ I’ve learned to 
pray since you came.” 

She wrote : “ I have been answered once or twice 
before I have risen from my knees. 

“ ‘ While I was yet speahing^^ Daniel says. 

“ Look as soon as you have faith to look. 

“ And having faith does not signify only being 
sure that God has heard you, but being sure that 
his will is best whether he give you evidence that 
he has heard you or not. 

“ ‘ I believe God may give it to me,’ may not be 
as sure an indication of faith as ‘ I believe God 
will do his will about it.’ 

“ A child may believe that God will give him 
something he has prayed for ; is his faith as great 


TWENTY-EIGHT, 


391 - 


as the old saint’s who says : ‘ I am waiting to see 
what the Lord will do for me ’ ? 

“ Faith is a growth all the way. 

“ Look for God’s will — he will take care of the 
‘ answer ’ to your prayer. The ‘ answer ’ is his ; 
all that you have to do is to take it. 

“ It may come little by little, and you may have 
to put it together for yourself ; obedience to every 
known duty will put it together for you ; you need 
not be anxious ; all you have to do is to obey, 

“ Heed the slightest intimation of God’s will ; 
don’t do anything, even any very little thing, that 
you feel to be not quite right; be sure that it is^ 
wholly and perfectly right. 

“ ‘ Let nothing make thee sad or fretful, 

Or too regretful, 

Be still. 

What God hath ordered must be right; 

Then find in it thine own delight. 

My Will.’ ” 

“ You told me that I am too much given to think- 
ing over things instead of doing them; make it a 
little plainer, pleased 

“ May I make it plainer, Sadie, with a quotation? 
Some one I love wrote this : 

“ ‘ Lord, it is good for us to be here,’ the disci- 
ples said. 


392 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ And it was good for them to he there ; but not 
too long. 

“ Man was sent into this world not merely to see 
but to do ; and the more he sees the more he is 
bound to go and do accordingly. 

“ St. Peter had to come down from the mount 
and preach the gospel wearily for many years, and 
die at last upon the cross. 

“ St. Augustine, although he gladly would have 
lived and died doing nothing but fixing his soul’s 
eye steadily upon the glory of God’s goodness, had 
to come down from the mount likewise, and work, 
and preach, and teach, and wear himself out in 
daily drudgery for that God whom he learnt to 
serve.” 

“ How can I do good to somebody f ” 

“ To do good to somebody, Elsie, dear, you must 
meet him on his own ground. 

“ Christ came down to earth to live with as well 
as live for his people and all the world. 

“Does the Voice from Sinai touch us as his 
human voice touches, speaking in the Sermon on 
the Mount?” 

(This was Elsie Atwater’s question. Elsie was 
thought by several of the girls (particularly the 
mill girls) to be something above and different 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


393 


from themselves, with her refined prettiness and 
grace of manner and speech.) 

“ Would not his hand touching you give you 
far more joy than any physical healing that touch 
might give ? 

“ Do not so often ask the girls to come to your 
home, but go to them ; take tea with Annie Hatch, 
and walk down the street with Annie Houston. 

“ Borrow a book from Edna Gleason, as well as 
surfeit her with books of your own. 

“ Do not always sit next to Emily or Janet.” 

(There were two questions in Elsie’s envelope.) 

To every other note the names had been signed 
in full ; to this there were not even initials. 

“ My life has nothing in it ; every day is alike ; 
common sorrows even do not come to me. 

“ Sometimes I think God has forgotten all about 
me ; I am not young; I am not anything.^'^ 

“ My first thought for you is not my own ; b.ut I 
believe it so thoroughly that I give it to you. 

“ ‘ Not unfrequently the most important years of 
a life, the years which tell most on the character, 
are unmarked by any notable events. A steady, 
orderly routine, a gradual progression, perseverance 
in hard work, often do more to educate and form 
than a varied and eventful life.’ 


394 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ You say God has forgotten about me ; is he say- 
ing ‘ She has forgotten about me f ’ ” 

Again her pen paused, and again she could think 
of nothing to add ; it would hardly do to write the 
indignation with which she spoke aloud : 

“ You selfish woman, why don’t you go to work?” 

He would not quench her smoking flax ; and it 
might be smoking because of — what ? God knew. 

“ The work at home seems so mean ; but I have got 
to do it ; what will make it easier ? ” 

“ I will copy something for you, Carrie, and I 
would like you to read it very carefully and under- 
stand every word. Each time you read it and 
think about it you will understand it better. 

“ ‘There are many little things in the household, 
attention to which is indispensable to health and 
happiness.’ 

“ (The health and happiness of your home are 
not ‘mean’ things.) 

“ ‘Cleanliness consists in attention to a number 
of apparent trifles — the scrubbing of a floor, the 
dusting of a chair, the cleansing of a teacup — but 
the general result of the whole is an atmosphere of 
moral and physical well-being, a condition favorable 
to the highest growth of human character.’ 

“ (There are little brothers and sisters growing 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


395 


up in your home, and you help make the air they 
breathe, as well as the clothes they wear and the 
food they eat. They are Christ’s little ones, too ; 
and he bids you be good to them.) 

“ ‘ The kind of air which circulates in a house 
may seem a small matter, for we cannot see the air, 
and few people know anything about it ; yet if we 
do not provide a regular supply of pure air within 
our houses, we shall inevitably suffer for our 
neglect.’ 

‘‘ (Have pure air in your sleeping-room, have 
pure air in your kitchen ; when the children get 
cross over their play, open the window for a few 
moments and freshen them up, and then perhaps 
you may not need to make anything else right. 

“ When I have felt ‘ blue ’ I have opened a win- 
dow and put my head out and breathed and 
breathed — and then gone back to weary work so 
refreshed !) 

“‘A few specks of dirt may seem neither here 
nor there, and a closed door or window appear to 
make little difference ; but it may make the differ- 
ence of a life destroyed by fever; and therefore 
the little dirt and the little bad air are really very 
serious matters.’ ” 


396 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


I do not know how to show what I feel ; I feel 
kindly so often when I do not one thing to show it’^ 

“We had a talk one day about ‘Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin.’ I will copy something for you that Mrs. 
Stowe wrote ; I am sure she understands how you 
feel. 

“ So do I, Janet. 

“ ‘ The other thing that represses the utterance 
of love is the characteristic shyness of the Anglo- 
Saxon blood. 

“ ‘ There is a powerlessness of utterance in our 
blood that we should fight against, and struggle 
outward towards expression. We can educate our- 
selves to it, if we know and feel the necessity; we 
can make it a Christian duty, not only to love but 
to be loving — not only to be true friends but to 
show ourselves friendly. 

“‘We can make ourselves say the kind things 
that rise in our hearts and tremble back on our 
lips — do the gentle and helpful deeds w'hicb we 
long to do and shrink back from ; and, little by 
little, it will grow easier — the love spoken will 
bring the answer of love — the kind deed will 
bring back the kind deed in return.’ ” 

“ What may I do on Sunday ? ” 

“ If I were with you on Sunday I could the bet- 


TWENTY-EIGHT. 


397 


ter answer you. Study Christ’s Sundays and fit 
your life on Sunday to his life on Sunday. 

“ In any special case ask Mrs. Atwater. 

“ Keep the consciousness of his presence and you 
cannot go wrong.” 

The last note brpught a smile. 

Poor, little, freckled, scrawny, lame, stupid Mol- 
lie Curtis. But she had lovely, loving eyes, and 
was so grateful for a little kindness. 

“ I want people to love me. What can 1 do ? 
Burn this up^'* 

‘‘ Think more about Jesus loving you, dear little 
Mollie, than about any one else loving you. 

“ You know I love you. 

“ Loving everybody, and with good-will doing 
service., will make you very lovel}^ and lovable. 

“ Kindness, gentleness, unselfishness, truthful* 
ness, gratitude, neatness, cheerfulness (and you 
may have every one) will make you so lovely that 
somebody, more than one somebody, cannot help 
loving you.” 

They were all addressed and sealed — twenty- 
seven envelopes ; then she gathered together the 
twenty-seven envelopes with her name upon them, 
and the twenty -eight notes, half sheets, whole 
sheets, and one or two rough pieces of paper; 


398 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


some prettily written, some carelessly written, 
more than one with words incorrectly spelled, and 
opened the stove door and thrust them in on top 
of the burning coals ; that was done ; she drew a 
breath of relief, extinguished the lamp, and laid 
herself down to sleep. 

It was nearly seven o’clock ; at half-past eight 
Jessie would ring the breakfast-bell at her door ; 
and then hand in hand they would go in to the 
winter dining-room, and Jessie would stand behind 
her chair and wait upon her with a grave and very 
important air as she ate her breakfast alone. 

One more breakfast alone, and then she would 
be off on her joyful way to Riverside. 

But before that was something she dreaded — a 
morning with Miss Betsey. 

She had called several times since that day in 
November, and but once had happened to meet 
Selah. 


XXII. 


MISS Betsey’s kitchen. 

“ Now, Mrs. Maxim, you must stay to dinner,” 
coaxed and commanded the flurried and hospitable 
mistress of the small kitchen ; “ you know it is the 
last time.” 

“ No, I do not,” said Grace, merrily, pushing 
back with both hands her wind-blown hair ; “ I 
may bring — my daughter to take dinner with you 
in this perfect kitchen. I am to be her nurse, 
maid, companion ; I hope to take her traveling ; I 
hope to show her what lovely possibilities are in 
her life yet. She has had a great deal to make her 
life sorrowful. Miss Betsey.” 

“ Most folks have,” answered Miss Betsey, 
shortly, as the gravy from the iron spoon with 
which she had been basting a pair of chickens 
dropped down on her clean apron ; “ here was 
Selah up before daylight — if he went to bed at 
all — and scampering around and turning things 
upside down like a young race-horse, and his head 
full of starting off for his orange groves, and in- 

( 399 ) 


400 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


sisting that I shall go, too. Last night he was as 
quiet as a lamb about going; I hope I didn’t put it 
into his head. I told Selah as soon as Joseph 
stopped with your note that I’d make you stay to 
dinner, and he said we must have hot roast chick- 
ens (we’ve got cold bits of chicken in the closet as 
tender as a lamb) and I said you must have some 
of my apple dumplings. You said once they were 
as good as some you bad in England.” 

“ So the}’^ were, and I’m hungrily ready for more. 
But you must not take trouble for me, dear Miss 
Betsey.” 

“ It’s the last time, and it’s all I can do for you ; 
for if ever you do come back I may be down in 
that hot country. Take your things right into the 
sitting-room bedroom and put them on the bed, and 
fix your hair there — it looks pretty any way — and 
nobody will be here but Selah to see it. He sent 
a telegraph dispatch to Philadelphia to tell Dr. At- 
water he couldn’t meet him there as he had en- 
gaged ; I told him we women folks would like 
dinner alone ; but it’s his last time, you know,” 
lowering her voice to a mysterious whisper. 

Grace went into the sitting-room bedroom to un- 
wrap ; she stood a while after her hair was brushed 
to look around the two rooms and wonder if she 


MISS BETSEY’S KITCHEN. 401 

ever could have been content to make a home for 
herself in them ; but there would have been no 
need, for Ben and Emily had begged her to “ go 
to housekeeping” in as many of their rooms as she 
could fill, and Ben had suggested that she might 
have rooms enough to take boarders. 

There was no need of any further planning all 
her life : Riverside was her home. 

“ Aint you coming ? ” 

Miss Betsey trotted in with a shining pan of 
greenings in one hand and an uplifted knife that 
was burnished to its brightest steel ; “ I can’t bear 
to lose sight of you a minute.” 

“ O yes,” said Grace, smiling ; “ excuse me ; I 
did not know I was staying so long.” 

The small, square kitchen was the pride of Miss 
Betsey’s old heart ; Selah called it her shrine, and 
told her she worshiped her pots, and pans, and 
ancestors in it. 

“ It’s the sweetest place in the world to me,” she 
remarked in reply to Grace’s enthusiastic apprecia- 
tion of its convenience and exquisite cleanliness ; 
“ there’s not a prettier in all Brooktown. Selah 
says the windows, with their broad sills and dia- 
mond-shaped panes and vines climbing up in sum- 
mer, are like windows in an English picture ; my 
26 


402 


FROM FLAX TO LIN EX. 


father studied a picture to make them, I know. He 

said if mother would live in her kitchen he would 

/ 

make it as handsome as he could for her ; he was a 
carpenter, you know, and he did all the work him- 
self; the drawers, and shelves, and tuck-away 
places are real ash, and the dark wood is real 
"black walnut. 

“ Folks think it queer to have but one handsome 
room in the house and that the kitchen, but my 
father was an original man, and mother never con- 
tradicted him — they lived happier than Selah and I 
ever did — and she was an invalid in her last days 
and had to have everything right to her hand ; he 
got it done for their fortieth wedding-day — they 
was both old folks — and the last day’s work he 
ever did was in this kitchen, and she followed him 
in eleven months ; she couldn’t seem to live without 
him. 

“ I’ve kept everything fixed up and had carpen- 
ters here when things began to give out, and now 
Selah wants me in my old age to go down south 
and leave my mother’s and my father’s kitchen. It 
will kill me, and I hope it will,” she exclaimed, 
devoutly, as if the cause were worth dying for. 

“ Oh, no ! Miss Betsey, for you shall not go,” 


MISS BETSEY^ S KITCHEN. 


403 


said Grace, with quick decision, moving a small 
chair to the old lady’s side. 

“ Mother was as proud of this room as Queen 
Victoria of her crown jewels ; she said if people 
had kitchens in heaven she hoped hers would be 
like this. I believe she would have been glad to 
take it with her. When I think, Mrs. Maxim, of 
all the splendid places in this world, I’m kind of 
sorry that they’ve all got to be burned up. We 
can't take them with us.” 

“ You wouldn’t find any use for them, everything 
there is so much better.” 

“I suspect I do love my kitchen too much; I 
used to get cross and fault-finding with Annette 
Ferris when she dropped anything or spotted any- 
thing, and if I was sick and couldn’t come out 
here, I suppose I’d worry myself to death.” 

“ I am glad you are so happy in it. You love it 
as well — no, you love it better — than I love my 
Riverside ; for I could be happy away from it when 
I almost did not hope to go back. But I do not 
want to take it to heaven with me.” 

“ Nor stay here in it and not go to heaven.” 

“ No,” said Grace, “ but I am glad that I may 
stay a while in it.” 

“But should you think,” cried Miss Betsey, 


404 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


lifting her right hand with the knife in it in solemn 
appeal, “ that I could be willing to leave this house 
with all my things in it and my own way about 
everything?” 

“ I should think it would be very hard,” said 
Grace. 

“ It’s too hard ! ” bringing the knife down to the 
edge of the pan with emphasis. 

“ We never have to do things that are too hard.” 

“ I won’t, if I do have to. It isn’t as if Selah 
was my husband and I had to obey ! And I told 
him so, and made him so mad he went off, and per- 
haps he won’t bring me the things I sent him for.” 

‘‘ How soon does he expect to go ? ” 

“ After dinner, he said, and I told him I tvished 
he’d go before. He’s made me hate Florida so that 
I’ll never eat another one of his old oranges; they’ll 
all taste of this morning.” 

With a laugh Grace picked a quarter of an apple 
out of the pan in Miss Betsey’s lap ; this morning 
tasted delicious to her. 

“ Help yourself, do ! I wish you would talk to 
him ; will you ? ” 

“ I do not think it will be necessary,” returned 
Grace, coldly ; “ he is too kind-hearted and sensi- 


MISS BETSEY’S KITCHEN, 405 

ble. When were first here alone I thought 
myself it might be better for you.” 

“ But you don’t know ! ” said Miss Betsey, study- 
ing the expression of Grace’s face through her 
misty glasses. 

“ Most decidedly I do not.” 

“ I’ll tell him that. You shall tell him that. He 
was on his high horse this morning ; I guess he’ll 
come down, he usually has to. But he’s been cross 
and uncertain lately, and couldn’t seem to settle 
down contented as he used to. If a brother can 
make me so uncomfortable,- what would a husband 
have been to me ? ” with reflective resignation. 

“ That is consoling,” laughed Grace. 

“ It’s all the consolation I want,” answered the 
satisfied old maid ; “ would you mind opening the 
oven door and leaving it open ? I don’t want them 
to be too brown.” 

While Grace was at the oven the outside door of 
the kitchen was pushed noisily open, and a stout 
figure in a handsome navy blue overcoat and navy 
blue felt hat stamped in, laden with small and large 
paper packages. 

“You look like Santa Claus,” exclaimed Miss 
Betsey ; “ did you get everything ? ” 


406 


FB03I FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Everything I had down on the paper and 
Florida oranges beside ; I want to woo you.” 

“ You won’t ‘ woo ’ me, or threaten me, or com- 
pel me,” was the tart reply ; “ don’t drop any- 
thing.” 

Elbowing a cupboard door open he began de- 
positing his packages upon a lower shelf ; “ Mrs. 
Maxim,” he said easily, with the navy blue back 
toward her, “ my sister is determined that you 
shall have one good dinner in Brooktown ! ” 

“ She is very kind,” said Grace, gratefully. 

“ We think you are good to come, don’t we, 
Selah? We was both tickled with your note; 
Joseph said he was going to mill right by here, 
and it was no trouble for him to bring it.” 

After a busy moment Selah tuimed to the quiet- 
looking lady who was watching his sister’s fingers 
as she deftly cut the apples, and lifted his hat; then 
he pulled off his gloves and extended a cold hand. 

Her fingers trembled slightly as they touched 
his ; she was angry with him still ; how did he 
dare ? 

“ Diana of the Ephesians, sure enough,” thought 
Miss Betsey, as she confusedly dropped her knife 
in among the apple parings. 

“ I knew you couldn't go without coming, sudden 


MISS BETSEY^ S KITCHEN, 


407 


as it was,” she said aloud, finding a choking voice; 
“ I should never have got over it if you had.” 

“ Like your going down south, it’s a thing you 
don’t have to do,” cried Grace, merrily ; “ and now 
I must show you something I brought you.” 

From a large envelope drawn from her pocket 
she took a photograph, cabinet size, and laid it on 
the table before Miss Betsey. 

Miss Betsey gave a delighted exclamation, and 
slipped off her glasses to wipe them before she took 
a full view ; Selah held it in his hand a moment, 
examining it with critical attention. 

“ Do let me have it ; don’t be so long,” cried 
Miss Betsey, with sharp impatience ; “ she didn’t 
give it to you!'" 

“ It is very fine,” he said, seriously, “ and it is a 
perfect likeness.” 

“ It’s perfectly splendid ! ” was Miss Betsey’s 
verdict after keen consideration, ‘‘ but you do look 
a little worn out.” 

“ I felt so that day — it was while I was waiting 
for my letter ; but it is all the more the real me ; I 
did want the girls to have my happiest face, but I 
could not get it for them. It makes me very happy 
to know that so many in Brooktown care to remem- 
ber me.” 


408 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ And I’ve lived here seventy-five years,” mur- 
mured Miss Betsey, with trembling fervor. 

“ And I hope you will seventy-five more,” said 
Selah with twinkling eyes, patting with his fat 
fingers the top of his sister’s gray head ; “ you 
shall stay, Betsey Ann; I spoke in my haste this 
morning. I owe you an apology; I would not take 
you now if you cried to go.” ^ 

Miss Betsey was nearly crying as it was; she 
rubbed her eyes vigorously and laughed ; she was 
sure Selah was in earnest now, and that the ques- 
tion would never come up again. 

“ But I don’t want you to go, Selah,” she said, 
affectionately. 

“ That’s another thing,” he returned, roughly ; 
“ I shall go as soon as I can make arrangements 
for your comfort. I shall not leave you here 
alone.” 

“ Put this away,” was all the reply she was ready 
to make ; “ put it on the mantel-shelf in the sitting- 
room, and don’t spot it with your fingers.” 

“ You shall have a red velvet frame for it,” he 
promised ; “ I will let Max choose one this after- 
noon.” 

“ That will be nice,” she said, returning content- 
edly to her apples ; “ only one more to do and 1 


MISS BETSEY'S KITCHEN. 


409 


must make the paste. If I mus’n’t stay alone, and- 
I’m sure I don’t want to — there was Hannah Har- 
ris ; she lived alone and was a very old woman ; it 
was when I was a girl ; her house was near the 
school-house, and summer afternoons when there 
oanie up a thunder-storm, she used to slip in and 
sit behind the door. I suppose she was lonesome 
staying alone ; we scholars got used to it, and 
didn’t notice her. One day somebody knocked 
and couldn’t get in, and went all around the 
house and couldn’t get in, so he got the neighbors 
together and they broke in ; and sure enough there* 
she was dead on the floor with her feet in the ashes 
on the hearth. Some thought she had a fit and 
fell out of her chair. The house was tore down 
afterwards ; it’s Main street now with stores and 
houses. No, ma’am; I don’t want to live here 
alone.” 

While Miss Betsey, with her sleeves rolled away 
from her skinny wrists, was mixing the crust for 
the apple dumplings and Grace being allowed to 
do nothing else sat watching, Grace suddenly ex- 
claimed : “ Oh ! I’ve thought of somebody. Miss 
Betsey ; Annie Houston is just the girl to come to 
stay with you. She isn’t lively like Nette, but she 


410 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


is bright and will be a pleasant companion, and she 
will easily learn your way of doing things.” 

“ What is her way of doing things ? ” demanded 
Miss Betsey. 

“ The mill girls are not usually good housekeep- 
ers, but you are just the one to train her. She 
has an unhappy home; she has no mother ; I shall 
be so glad to think of her with you.” 

“ And me with her ? ” 

“ Yes, you with her ; she is very ladylike — her 
mother was a school teacher — ” 

“ I believe you are thinking more of her than 
you are of me,” said the old lady, jealously. 

Selah chuckled as he listened, standing before 
the fire in the sitting-room with his eyes upon the 
picture in his hand ; it was only a picture, he rea- 
soned, and even the picture was not his ; would it 
be too mean a thing to do to take it to Philadel- 
phia and have it copied and enlarged to hang in 
his room, where the light would fall on that sweet 
face ? 

He never could have anything else ; might he 
not have this little thing ? 

Nobody in the world need ever know, and it 
would be more to him in his new kind of loneli- 
ness than he dared to think. 


MISS BETSEY’S KITCHEN. 


411 


If he couldn’t get it fairly would he steal it? 

“ No, I won’t,” he muttered between his set 
teeth ; “ I’ve got grit enough to give it up.” 

The young voice was talking eagerly; what a 
young thing she was compared to his worn out 
sixty years ; her eyes would never flash scorn at 
him, for such a thought as an old man like him 
caring for her would never enter her heart ! 

“ I am old, that’s a fact. I lost my chance years 
ago — that’s another fact — but I won’t be an old 
fool, and that’s the biggest fact of all.” 

The young voice was still talking eagerly : “ She 
has learned to darn and mend neatly ; she will save 
your eyes, and she will read aloud to you ; she is 
very willing and obliging ; she will be so grateful 
for a home like this.” 

Miss Betsey answered ungraciously: “Is that all 
her recommendations ? Can she wash, and iron, 
and bake, and clean house ? ” 

Very gently answered the other voice: “Dear 
Miss Betsey, I thought you wanted to help some- 
body ; you said once your day was past for helping, 
but you see it isn’t. You can help her to become 
a good woman ; you do not know what you may 
save her from. She is so unhappy at home that I 
fear she may marry some worthless young fellow 


412 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


just to escape from it. Suppose your home saves 
her from that.” 

In thoughtful silence the busy old hands moulded 
the dumplings ; at last, when they were all dropped 
into the boiling water, Miss Betsey spoke and made 
known her mind. 

“ Since you put it that way — you see you’ve got 
the best of me — ” 

The next sound was a kiss ; old as he was Selah 
colored, and wished himself away. There was no 
one in the whole world to kiss him like that. 

“ I didn’t regret taking Annette — ” 

“ You will never regret taking Annie.” 

“ ’Tis true I never did help along much — not in 
your way.” 

“ Isn’t it nice that it isn’t too late to begin ? I 
hope I’ll begin to do something I’ve neglected the 
last day I live. The busiest people only begin, you 
know. And there’s her brother — ” 

A voice called from the sitting-room : “ What 
about her brother ? ” 

“ Come here, please, and let me tell you.” 

Selah went out to her, and stood awkward and 
uneasy at her side. 

“ O Mr. Gunn, if you will only take him ! Away 
from his evil associates it would be so much easier 


MISS BETSEY’S KITCHEN, 


413 


to begin. He is not bright like Annie ; he is an 
amiable, purposeless, easily influenced boy; he will 
respect you, when he finds that he must work or 
go hungry — he will not go hungry. He told me in 
the only talk I ever had with him that he didn’t 
care what became of him, and I don’t wonder ; I 
don’t believe I would if I were in his home, with 
his disposition and temptations. He isn’t as Avorth 
while helping as Annie, but he is worth while. 
And she will be so relieved to have him away and 
under good influence.” 

Selah became easy under her flow of talk ; she 
was not thinking of him any more than of any 
other man whom she might persuade to help that 
boy. 

“ I’ve seen him ; I saw him this morning with a 
long clay pipe in his mouth and his hands in his 
ragged pockets, lounging around an eating saloon. 
He has a hang-dog, discouraged look.” 

“You don’t want a boy like that,” determined 
Miss Betsey. 

“ A boy like that wants me,” said Selah, with 
quick decision. 

“ Go away. You are a pair of you. Mrs. Maxim 
will go home contented now she has beguiled us 
both.” 


414 


FEOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“Yes,” laughed Grace, “ I thank you both with 
all my heart.” 

“ Well, Selah, if you take him off he won’t be 
lounging around here to see his sister, and wanting 
his supper, and bringing mud in. I don’t know 
but what it is the best thing you can do, for I won’t 
have him around.” 

“ In five years I’ll bring him back a respectable 
man, I hope,” said Selah; “I’ll make arrangements 
with him this very afternoon ; I must take him to 
the shoemaker’s and tailor’s first. I suppose he 
will be willing to go with me.” 

“ I am confident of that,'” said Grace. 

“ When will Annie come ? ” asked Miss Betsey. 

“ I’ll see her after dinner,” promised Selah . 
“ Mrs. Maxim, your heart may rest on something 
being done.” 

“ I know you will hold on to him.” 

“ I promise you I will,” he answered, gravely. 

“ Selah, how is the fire in the setting-room ? ” 

He was very glad to go and see. 


XXIIL 


AROUND THE TABLE. 

“ Mrs. Maxim, you haven’t told us about your 
new home,” observed Selah, as the three sat around 
the small dinner table. 

“ Excuse me,” said Grace, somewhat proudly, 
“ it’s my old home.” 

Throwing himself back in his chair, Selah caught 
his thumbs in his vest pockets ; Grace flushed at 
the uncouthness of his attitude ; she was very sen- 
sitive to little things in regard to what is called 
“ table manners.” 

Misinterpreting her evidence of feeling, he prom- 
ised himself to keep his mouth shut upon the sub- 
ject of her future ; but Miss Betsey was equal to 
the occasion. 

“ Where is it, Mrs. Grace ? ” 

“ On the James river ; I thought I had told you. 
Haven’t I told you about my visit to Jamestown 
with Harold ? ” 

“ Who is Harold ? ” 

“ My husband’s younger son and my dear boy. 

( 415 ) 


416 


FROM FLAX TO LI^EN. 


I am very fond of him. He writes me that he has 
the loveliest wife in the world. I am going back 
to a world of pleasant things.” 

“ There is John, too,” reminded Miss Betsey. 

“Yes. But he has the town house. His wife I 
admire, too. Have I told you that 1 am a grand- 
mother ? ” Grace asked, with a merry laugh. 

Selah laughed loudly; she was not such a “young 
thing ” then ; why should somebody’s grandmother 
be too young for him ? He was not anybody’s 
grandfather. 

“We all loved Riverside best, and my husband 
rarely went to Richmond, even for a week in win- 
ter. Mary is always at Riverside unless she is vis- 
iting or traveling.” 

“ Does she travel a great deal ? ” Selah felt that 
this, at least, was a safe question. 

“Yes. She is uneasy ; she is not a happy woman ; 
but I think she will be happier now.” 

“ Tell us about Riverside,” said Miss Betsey, 
sitting upright, straight and tall, which was her 
position of ease ; “ is it very elegant ? ” 

“I have seen many places much more elegant; 
but it is rather handsome ; the lawn slopes to the 
river’s edge ; there is the prettiest spring in the 
woods ; I used to think it the prettiest thing on 


ABOUND THE TABLE. 


417 


the place ; a brook runs from it, the clearest brook, 
over pebbles, and the fringed, uneven edge was so 
pretty to me.” 

“But that isn’t the house; there are springs 
everywhere,” commented Miss Betsey, impatiently. 

“ You see what a country girl I was. The river 
and the spring were my delights; there are houses 
everywhere. Miss Betsey.” 

“ But I’m curious about the house ; I want to 
see what kind of a house you have lived in. Who 
is the mistress ? ” 

Grace flushed again. “ I am,” with a thrill of 
pride in her happy voice. 

“J.reyou?” cried Miss Betsey, in amazement; 
“ you never told me that.” 

. “ While my husband was ill I had no thought or 
care beside; but now Mary is ill — she wishes to 
give up the care to me.” 

“ Who owns it ? ” persisted Miss Betse3^ 

“ Betsey ! Betsey Ann,” warned Selah, sharply, 
inwardly satisfied, however, to have the questioning 
proceed. 

“ I am willing to tell her, Mr. Gunn,” said Grace ; 
“ it isn’t merely curiosity ; and she has been kind 
to me and has a right to know. The place belongs 
to my husband’s daughter and my husband’s wife ; 
2T 


418 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


if Mary goes away before I do it will be entirely 
mine ; but I may leave it to her.” 

“ It takes money to keep it up.” 

“Judge Maxim did not forget that,” said Judge 
Maxim’s wife. 

“ He provided handsomely for you, then.” 

How glad his wife was, how proud, how humble 
to say: “Yes.” Her eyes were suffused for an 
instant; no one could ever know how sweet this 
“providing” was! 

“ I’m very glad,” said Miss Betsey, heartily ; 
“you have been like a princess in disguise among 
us.” 

“ Not in any disguise ; I was my real self. There 
was some trouble, at first; it is made right now, 
that is all. I was not a rich woman when I came 
to Brooktown — rather I was and did not surmise 
it ; I was satisfied not to be.” 

“Now you are satisfied to be.” Selah was on 
safe ground again. 

“Yes,” Grace said; “but I am richer than 
money’s worth ; I am rich in love’s worth ; Harold 
loves me and Mary feels herself very near to me, 
and is eager to have me as nurse — as I was to her 
father ; she wants just that care and needs it. Her 
maid is not perfectly satisfactory, and her aunt does 


ABOUND THE TABLE. 


419 


not love life in a sick-room — she prefers traveling 
with Mary to staying at home with her.” 

“ Which do you prefer ? ” he asked. 

“ Both — we are to be real girls together for our 
mental, physical and spiritual refreshment. But, 
Miss Betsey, I will go back to the house. The 
architecture is a combination — English and Swiss; 
it was intended for a summer home, but my hus- 
band’s illness made it desirable that we should win- 
ter there, so he had it made into a winter home as 
well. 

“ It is comfort in perfection ; he satisfied every 
whim' of his, and Mary’s, and mine in the additions 
and changes.” 

“ I suppose it cost a good deal.” 

“I never knew how much; there were three hun- 
dred acres at first, but the land was willed to John 
so that Mary might not have the care of it ; John 
may build a summer home there some day. 

“ There are no inside doors on the lower floor, 
excepting those that shut the butler’s pantry from 
the hall and dining-room.” 

“Did you have a butler V"* queried Miss Betsey, 
in undisguised amazement. In the stories she read 
butlers were in very great houses. 

“We had the handsomest and most elegant black 


420 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN 


man I ever saw ; he was as tall as the J udge, and 
Mary said used to imitate her father’s manner ex- 
actly ; I think he is still with her; he was attached 
to her father. 

“ There is no paint or paper in the whole house ; 
it is finished in wood like your handsome kitchen — ” 

“Is your kitchen as handsome as this?” Miss 
Betsey inquired with anxiety. 

“ Our kitchen is not in the house — it is a house 
by itself ; it is very nice and convenient.” 

“ You won’t do much there ! ” 

“ I shall not have time ; with Mary and my writ- 
ing my time will be full enough. On one side of 
the hall is a fire-place that the Judge was proud of ; 
there was a great deal of iron work about it ; the 
stairway is carved and lighted with a painted win- 
dow. My husband was richer when he built the 
house than afterward.” 

“ Did you know he was so rich when you married 
him?” was Miss Betsey’s next hasty question ; it 
would have been cruel from any one else. 

“ I knew when I married him that I loved him 
better than I had supposed was in me to love ; I 
had known him since I was a child ten years old — 
I had known him as Mary’s father — the dearest 
father ever girl had.” 


AUOUND THE TABLE. 


421 


Betsey!^' exclaimed Selah, seriously angry, 
“you should beg Mrs. Maxim’s pardon.” 

“ I don’t know why,” said Miss Betsey ; “ I 
wanted to know.” 

“ You know now,” he answered, curtly. 

“ I don’t know whether I do or not. I don’t see 
how you could live so satisfied in Greatgrand- 
mother’s old house.” 

“I was not always satisfied. I was very home- 
sick. At times I thought I could not bear it. You 
see I did not have to bear it too long.” 

“No wonder your picture looks so, then. It’s 
all there ; more is there than is in your face this 
minute. You don’t show anything but happiness 
now.” 

“I do not feel anything else.” 

“ Any way, I’m glad you came to Brooktown. 
But you are forgetting to eat. Selah, take your 
thumbs out of your pockets and give her some 
gravy ; you’ve forgotten how to wait on folks.” 

“ You haven’t forgotten how to ask questions. 
Mrs. Maxim, are you interested in gravy?” 

“ I am in Miss Betsey’s.” 

“ Are you going right there ? ” Miss Betsey’s 
curiosity was not yet satisfied. 

“ No •, I shall spend to-morrow night at Auntie 


422 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


Holbrook’s. I have trunks there to be taken to 
Riverside. Nette will be glad to learn about you, 
and to know that I saw you to-day.” 

“ I suppose your Auntie Holbrook will visit you 
some day,” said Miss Betsey, rather jealously. 

“ I hope so,” Grace answered, brightly, “ if I 
can get her away from The Backwoods ; but she 
is a fixture like you.” 

‘‘Well,” Miss Betsey drew a long breath, “you 
are going to your home and I am not going away 
from mine.” 

“I congratulate you both,” said Selah, as cor- 
dially and quietly as though the words were not so 
hard to be spoken. 

“ Thank you,” said Grace, gratefully, with a 
great feeling of kindness towards the little, bald- 
headed man. 

After dinner she fed the cat with what was left 
upon her plate, and wiped the dishes for Miss Bet- 
sey; at the parting Miss Betsey’s unaccustomed 
tears fell, but Grace gave her a merry kiss and 
promised to send her something very nice for her 
next birthday, and they were dried while she stood 
at the sitting-room window watching her quick 
steps down the shoveled path. 

And then Miss Betsey read her thick Sunday- 


AROUND THE TABLE. 


423 


school book, and fell into fits of musing between 
the pages, and Selah shook up the cushion on the 
lounge in the sitting-room and laid himself down, 
and before he knew it fell asleep. 

In the misty gray light of the next morning he 
stood upon the platform of the railway station, 
with liis hat slouched over his eyes, watching the 
tall figure in the seal cloak as it moved about the 
waiting-room, and stepped back, not daring to in- 
trude, as Grace Maxim passed him to enter the 
train ; a glimpse of a face at a window, the motion 
of a gloved hand, and then the train puffed off, 
and he stood looking after it with a blurred vision 
and a sound as of rushing water in his ears ; then, 
wondering that the whole world should be so empty, 
he staggered on a little way ; and then he lifted 
himself up and walked on with his usual firm 
tread. 

“ I’ll work all the harder,” he promised the Lord 
and himself. 


XXIV. 


MARY. 

The windows were all thrown open, and the 
sunshine poured in a flood of golden glory. Mary 
Maxim was bathed in it as she sat before her fire ; 
the sunshine and the fireshine were her life nowa- 
days ; by and by the western sunshine would fade, 
and she would be left to the fireshine. 

Her wrapper of garnet plush was as comfortable 
as becoming ; in her long illness and unrest of 
mind her hair had turned perfectly white, while 
her eyebrows remained as dark as in her school- 
days ; violet half circles beneath her luminous 
black eyes increased the striking delicacy of her 
face ; resting in her padded chair she felt herself 
as listless, languid and frail as a thing of life 
could be. 

But she was contented at last ; there was not 
one thing more for her to do in life but to be 
still — and to be still with Grace at her side or 
within call. 

Her father’s Grace. 

( 424 ) 


MABT. 


425 


“ June ! ” 

The pretty mulatto woman sewing in a wicker 
chair at the window responded instantly. 

“ I want Mrs. Maxim.” 

Mary spoke in the tone of a petted child. 

“You always want her, Miss Mary,” said June 
with a smile, lingering a moment at her mistress’ 
side for very love of her. 

“ But she doesn’t always want me, June.” 

“ You would not say so. Miss Mary, if you could 
see her face when she looks up! She loves to be 
sent for^ you know.” 

“ And so do you, you dear, faithful old June ! 
Tell her to bring her work, whatever it is, and say 
I want her a long time.” 

Grace came immediately; she did not bring her 
“ work,” and she left her pen undried. 

“I forgot to ask June to close the windows; 
may I trouble you ? I have had all the air I can 
bear to-day. Are you glad to be called away to 
such an exacting invalid as I am ?” 

“ More glad than for anything. That is the 
happiest thing you can do for me.” 

“ It’s very strange.” 

“ I am sorry it is strange to you.” 

“ Push your chair close to me ; take hold of my 


426 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


hand with your strong hand; I felt as if my breath 
had gone and would not come again.” 

“You have felt so a dozen times ; it never does 

go.” 

“ It's easy for you to laugh with the pure air in 
your sound lungs.” 

Grace smiled down at her as she stood at her 
side ; “ Mary, your hair grows prettier every day.” 

“ Because it is like my father’s. To think that 
you should come to me as you came to him — I 
couldn’t love you while I was wronging you. I do 
not know why I love you now ; I do not believe I 
do ; I simply can’t live without you.” 

“ That will do instead. I only want you to live 
with me.” 

“ Sit down, please.” 

Grace sat down and took her hand; Mary’s 
fingers clung to it ; she was such a child. 

“ I used to like papa to want me. You remind 
me of him more than any one ; if I cannot have 
him, I want you. Aunt Horatia could not breathe 
in a sick-room ; but she is old. I am relieved that 
she would leave me ; Harold’s wife will be very 
kind to her, and when we start off on our travels 
she can go with us. You are lovely, just lovely to 
her, Grace,” cried Mary, enthusiastically. 


MABY. 


427 


“She is very kind to me.” 

“ At last. I do not think she feels any differ- 
ently toward you, but she knows she has to recog- 
nize your position. Her will does grow weaker as 
she grows older, too. She does not feel sent away ; 
she is sure she may return for her lifetime any hour 
in the day. But she cannot live without some kind 
of excitement ; she was most kind when I was so 
ill. You take naturally to a sick-room, Grace.” 

“ Your room is not a sick-room; it is a room to 
grow strong in.” 

“ You will never forget your promise ; you will 
never go away from me ? ” Mary cried, nervously. 

“ Never, any more than I would from your 
father ; I am bound to you — for his sake.” 

“ That is so sure a bondage that I will be satis- 
fied. Now, don’t look so ; it bondage — love’s 
bondage though it be. I don’t want your life to 
be hard any longer.” 

“ It is not — any longer. I have nothing to wish 
for except that you grow strong. And that is being 
fulfilled every day. Is anything troubling you, 
dear?” 

“ No ; nothing. I am too relieved — after being 
so long depressed the relief is too painful. Had 
it come suddenly I believe my life would have 


428 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


snapped ; but I was getting ready for it — I knew it 
was not far off ; I went to Brooktown\o tell you, 
but after that first moment you froze me, and Aunt 
Horatia kept me under and I couldn’t be brave.” 
Her eyes filled. She was hardly “ brave ” yet. 

“ And then the portrait finished it. I was only 
waiting to prepare them — and, then, I was worn 
out and taken ill. It is a pitiful story.” 

“With a blessed ending,” said Grace’s happy 
voice. 

“ It had to have because you are in it.” 

“You mustn't forget your own story; you are 
the conqueror ; think how much you had to brave, 
and you were born timid ! ” 

“ What were you born ? ” 

“ Tempestuous ! ” said Grace, smiling. 

“ I almost envy you ; I am too weak for any 
strong feeling, but I almost envy; you are so 
strong, you are so much — ” 

“ I want to be so much to you.” 

“ I used to env}^ you when you sat this way at 
papa’s side ; now I know how good it was for him. 
You are not old yet.” 

“ No,” said Grace, “ not white-haired, even.” 

“How long have you been with me? Time 


MARY. 


429 


seems so strange to me. It seems a long time 
since you came.” 

“ I came the second day of our new year.” 

“ And to-day is May.” 

“ And we will soon be out on the lawn together.” 

Mary shook her head ; “ Do not hurry me ; I 
want to be a long time getting well.” 

“ You shall not be hurried into anything. Noth- 
ing shall be done without your willing and cheerful 
permission.” 

“ That rests me. Aunt Horatia was always hur- 
rying me. Grace, I never can understand how you 
could go away and be so poor. I shouldn’t know 
how to be poor.” 

♦ 

“You forget that I lost all when I lost your 
father ; poverty was nothing to me, riches were 
nothing to me. If I might not go with him (and 
how I prayed that I might go) I hardly cared 
where I went or where I stayed. All I wanted 
was to go to. sleep ; I should have been glad to 
have stayed asleep. And then when I came more 
to myself I was homesick ; I wanted to be where 
he had been ; I wanted to be reminded of him 
every hour, and then I began to wish for some- 
thing to do ; something new to do with myself, 
out of myself.” 


430 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


, “ And you found it ! ” exclaimed Mary, in a tone 
of curiosity and wonder ; “ but it was like you ; it 
was really nothing new.” 

“ It came to me a new thing.” 

“ I used to wish for something new. Once I 
almost wanted to be poor for a change — to have to 
work for my living ; to live in a poor, little, cramped 
house and wait upon myself. I thought I should 
enjoy money if I had to earn it. If I were poor I 
might wish for things I could get ; but being rich 
I had what money could get, and how could I get 
what I wanted — health, and papa, and Henleigh 
Whittaker — back again? Catching her breath, 
she went on : 

“ It is very hopeless to know you never can have 
what you desire most.” 

“ I think it must be.” 

“You do not know. What did you wish for 
most ? ” asked Mary. 

“ For Riverside and Harold — an<i for you to 
love me. And — ^you will not quite understand — I 
wanted to be xised. I was willing to be anything, 
the meanest thing, if I might be used for some 
good purpose ; I wanted to do the best kind of 
good to people. I wanted to tell them some things 


MABY. 


431 


I knew — that I had to learn, that do not come of 
themselves, and I did not know how.” 

“ You have learned how.” 

“ I am learning how every day.” 

Mary’s eyelids drooped wearily ; the sunset was 
fading ; very soon the shining of the fire would be 
the only glow in the room. 

“ When I came you sat up but one hour a day ; 
to-day you have walked twice the length of this 
room, and you stood a while at the window, and 
you wrote a note to John.” 

“ But I am so tired after it.” 

“ You have a right to be; you have a right to be 
more weary than I am after a day’s work,” said 
Grace, and then in a more brisk tone, 

“ I must read you one of my boarding-school 
stories; the magazine came in this morning’s mail — 
also a check for twenty dollars.” 

“ Twenty dollars,” repeated Mary, scornful and 
amused.' 

“ I know how much twenty dollars is in board 
money ; it would have paid my board nearly seven 
weeks at Greatgrandmother’s. Do you remember 
Rose Hathaway? She is in my story; she was 
from the West Indies ; she had a stepfather who 
married after her mother died, and so she had the 


432 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


unenviable notoriety of having what the rest of us 
girls couldn’t have — a stepfather and a stepmother. 
With what a tragic air she used to tell it to the new 
girls.” 

“ She was one of the rich girls.” 

“ Oh, yes ; and she had yellow hair and pretty 
teeth, and played and sang, and never knew her 
lessons.” 

“ And Mabel Remsen ! She was one of the poor 
girls. She is in my story. Do you remember how 
we found, written and pasted on the outside of her 
door ; 

“ ‘ Mending gloves, 10 cts. 

“ ‘ Mending shoes, 10 cts. 

“ ‘ Errands, 10 cts. to 15 cts. 

“ ‘ Bringing up breakfast, 5 cts. 

“ ‘ Brushing hair, 5 cts. 

“ ‘ Mending hose, 10 cts. 

“ ‘ Mending — miscellaneous, 10 cts. to 25 cts. 

“ ‘ Bills presented every Saturday morning.’ ” 

“ And how glad I was to find it ! I hated to do 
such things, and never had had to. A bill was 
presented to me every Saturday.” 

“ To Rose, too, I think ; and I had more than a 
few, for I didn’t love mending in those days.” 


MARY, 


433 


“ She used to do my hair, too — and many a time 
brought up my breakfast or tea.” 

“ She became quite wealthy ; she used to say she 
sent it all home to her mother. An old aunt was 
educating her. It was a brave thing to do. I used 
to wonder if I would have the courage if I were 
poor.” 

“ Twenty dollars isn’t enough for your stories.” 

“ Oh, I am not a famous author. But I am glad 
of the money.” 

“ What for ? ” Mary opened her eyes in amaze- 
ment. 

“You think I have no need ; I do have a need. 
I want to earn what I give.” 

“ I never think about giving unless some special 
matter is brought before me.” 

“ When I began to write I made a promise — I 
had an assured income, you know, sufficient for my 
plain way of living — and the promise was that if my 
poor little scribblings brought me money, much or 
little, it should be devoted to one object very near 
my heart.” 

“ Whom did you promise ? ” 

“ I promised — the One who has given me my 
measure of success.” 

“ Dr. Atwater ? ” 

28 


434 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ No.” 

“Oil!” Mary exclaimed, in an enlightened tone. 

Had she not made a promise to him, too ? 

That night before she made her will had she not 
promised One of whom she was afraid that she 
would keep her word, and be just and true to her 
father’s wife ? 

“What is the object near your heart? I believe 
you have a hundred or two.” 

“ I believe I have,” said Grace with her happy 
smile. 

“ This is Miss Betsey ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Max, then ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Nette Ferris?” 

“ No,” said Grace, more and more amused. 

“ Anybody in Brooktown ? ” 

“ It is many — not in Brooktown in these days ; 
in the days of Baron Steuben it was different.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you when you guess.” 

Mary had become thoroughly interested. 

“It is people, and many; the kind that lived in 
the Baron’s days, and do not live there now. Where 
do they live ? ” 


MARY. 


435 


“ Further west.” 

“ Oh, the Indians ! ” 

“ Yes, the poor Indians. You have heard of Lo, 
the poor Indian, haven’t you?” 

“ What makes you care for the Indians ? ” 

“ I have always cared, ever since our history 
lessons at school. How interested Harold was in 
them when I first came to Riverside ! he took me 
to the place of Powhatan’s encampment — if that is 
the name of it — and how many treasures he had 
unearthed on this plantation ! How can you be a 
Virginian and not interested in the Indians? Don’t 
you know that Hattie Winthrop traced her ancestry 
back to the Indians? She looked like one, too.” 

“ I do remember ; I had forgotten her ; wasn’t 
she an ugly thing? So the influence of her is on 
you yet ; I wonder what has not, and who has not, 
influenced you, Grace Maxim.” 

“ I like to feel the touch of living things as they 
pass by. Of course, what I earn is not a great 
sum ; I hope it will increase yearly. I like to 
think that not only my small literary work, but the 
small money it brings, may be used to good pur- 
pose. I don’t want anything about me to be 
wasted.” 


436 


FBOM FLAX TO LINEN. 


There was a touch of her old merriment about 
Mary’s laugh. 

“ You work everything in. Authors have to be 
shut up somewhere, and you might as well be shut 
up here as in the old Baron’s room. Would you 
be content to stay here and write all your life ? ” 
“With you. And an outing once every winter 
and once every summer to find people to write for.” 

“ That is a motive for traveling. I quite long to 
go with you.” 

“ On the train between Philadelphia and Wash- 
ington I saw a girl that I’ve written for ever since; 
about twenty, with soft, dark eyes, and soft, dark 
hair, and a pretty mouth when she talked, and she 
was talking earnestly to an old lad}^ 

“ I heard her sa}^ something that pleased me ; 
she would have talked to me like my Brooktown 
girls; and I thought, ‘You are another girl I am 
writing for.’ Her black and white check suit was 
very pretty, and her hat was becoming with its 
crimson velvet binding and bows ; I’ve written one 
of my ‘ Talks ’ especially for her.” 

“ What an enthusiast you are ! ” 

“And when I want a place for a long story, I 
want you to go with me to find it. I would like 
to write a story about American girls in Germany.” 


MARY. 


437 


“ On the spot, I suppose.” 

“ On the very spot. I want the homes to be 
photographs and the scenery.” 

“ A summer story?” 

“ Yes ; and we might take them to Nice in the 
winter.” 

“ Or Egypt.” 

“ Or the Great Desert,” added Grace. 

Then the two laughed. 

“ Grace, I will help you in your work. As soon 
as I am strong I will go with you where you 
choose ; perhaps somewhere I can find something 
to do.” 

“ Is that a promise ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, glancing up into the face 
looking down upon them ; “ your life shall not be 
cramped because of me. If I can do nothing but 
help you do, I shall rejoice in that. Most certainly 
I promise not to hinder.” 

“ Now you are tired enough to lie down, aren’t 
you?” 

“ No ; I am stronger than I was an hour ago. I 
can get well, if I have something to get well for. 
More than one physician has told me that. I want 
to go into my father's rooms ; I have not entered 
them for a long time.” A quick sob choked her. 


438 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“June says you have made’them as fresli as ever. 
To-morrow you shall take me out on the lawn , and 
some day we will go out on the river. I will give 
up my fire and take to the sunshine.” 


XXV. 


SEVEN YEARS AFTERWARD. 

Mary Maxim ran up stairs in her boating 
suit; she had been out on the river with John’s 
twins, Mary and Martha, and Harold’s five-year- 
old Goldenhair. 

Riverside, with Grandma and Aunt Mary, were 
fairy-land to the Richmond children. ^ 

“ Grandma ” had finished her day’s' writing, and 
was waiting for Aunt Mary in Aunt Mary’s own 
chamber. 

It was May again and sunset ; the windows were 
open in Mary’s chamber, but no fire was burning 
on the hearth. 

“You must go out on the river, to-morrow, 
Grace ; I have promised the children that you 
shall. You promised me you would take a long 
vacation.” 

“So I will; I’ve just written that fact to Dr. 
Atwater.” 

“ What did you say about our visit to Brook- 
town ? ” 


( 439 ) 


440 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ I told him we were coming ; Emily has the 
Baron’s room ready for us, and little Ben has his 
first pants; and little Emily Achsah Deane Atwater 
knows all about us; Emily’s letter to-day is full of 
news.” 

“ Then I’ll sit down as I am and hear it. June 
will dress the children. Something about this day 
reminds me of our two years abroad. Oh ! that 
dress of yours is one thing. We bought it in 
Paris. You are growing so plump you are almost 
outgrowing it, and I shall never be fragile again.” 

Mary threw herself down among the pillows, but 
not at all with an exhausted air, and begged for the 
letter. 

An hour’s rest, whether she needed it or not, was 
one of her prescriptions. 

“Well, Miss Betsey had just called to inquire 
about me, having missed my last letter — I am care- 
less about writing to her, I confess, but I think 
she hears through the others and so neglect her. 
She seems as brisk as ever, and as talkative. Rose 
Smiley has married a Philadelphia merchant, and 
Max Truman has opened a law office in town — he 
isn’t married nor likely to be. Nette Ferris has 
married a photographer, and her husband has her 


SEVEN YEAUS AFTEBWABD. 441 

name with his on the business cards ; it is the 
studio of Mr. and Mrs. William Ray. 

“ It is a year since Emily wrote ; no wonder she 
has so much to tell me. Elsie Atwater is engaged 
to a missionary, and expects to go to China. I 
thought Elsie would end herself in some such 
fashion. 

“ Annie Houston is still with Miss Betsey. 

“ Dear Auntie Holbrook would have been as old 
as Miss Betsey, but she isn’t. I am so glad when 
I remember that the last winter she lived was with 
us, and you were lovely to her, Mary.’^ 

“ O yes,” said the voice from the pillows, “ I 
am growing lovely nowadays. It’s almost time. 
Even Aunt Horatia finds no fault with me. She 
wants to go to Brooktown with us.” 

“ How strange it will be to be in that room 
again ! Dear old Greatgrandmother would like 
to have us come. My work began there.” 

“ Did you tell Dr. Atwater what he asked you 
to find out for him, the magazines and papers you 
have written for?” 

“Yes, and I was surprised niyself. I never could 
have remembered, but I keep a list of the titles and 
prices, and name of paper or magazine. Guess how 
many ? ” 


442 


FROM FLAX TO LINEN. 


“ Magazines ? Well, six ; no, not so many.” 

“ Nine.” 

‘‘Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, when I think 
of it.” 

“ And papers ? ” 

“ Oh, twenty ! Now I can’t be wrong. I know 
that is a good many.” 

“ Twenty with nine added ! 

“Nine magazines and twenty-nine papers you 
have written for in seven years. No wonder you 
have had to be such a busy woman. Is that all 
Emily’s news ? ” 

After a moment Grace spoke : “ Did I ever tell 
you about Miss Betsey’s brother ? ” 

“ With the queer name — Selah ? ” 

“ She had just heard of his death, and asked 
Emily to write to me. A child was drowning — he 
saved the child but could not save himself ; Annie 
Houston’s brother had been with him for years ; he 
telegraphed to Annie — he expected to bring him 
home that he might be laid beside his father and 
mother. Miss Betsey will be heart-broken.” For 
an instant Grace’s eyes were suffused — all he had 
lost, or never had, was made up to him now. 

Just then Goldenhair ran in and sprang into 


SEVEN YEARS AFTERWARD. 


443 


Grace’s arms, nestling her head close to her cheek. 
Goldenhair belonged to Grandma. 

No wonder Grace Maxim said she was the hap- 
piest woman in the world. 


THE EKD. 


- 'ft 

■ '. ■ • ‘ '• 'V . ^ ' •* • -ry.i . »• ' ' 





■''•/I'' '•' '•?'•' v ■' 



• *1 

. ( ‘•.'9 > . ' 

# V, -H / » ♦■•■ 

» 


•✓s’*"''- 






- / 


■ 

J V ■*> • • ** 

v: %•• v 





. •#' > s 

** S«» V 


'U- 
■ t ■■ 





. •' •' 



• \ 


■ V . • A* 




V.- . •. 

-■'^y ' , ' 


4 I 


i • 
I 

- 

. . - . A 


._■ f 


^ >.s 

, ' ; •- S . ■ . ■.^- .^-v- ; ,. w-y . 

^ - .i'- >;■;.: -■•■ m 


'. V .<*♦' 


f-?. 


> ;• 



^ •• • . . 

S’- ■ 

-^-Jv . v“.'* > 


T«" 




r ‘ ■ * 


•-•'• i; 




» ■ * • * V . ■ 

t/* «■: 




' I"’'' .‘V‘ /vv ^'; 

* V ... - ^ ' "■ 

*4 .■»•- ■’ .^. '•«■ ^ » • * 


. • /. 


* w- \ 


\f < 


:vj- 


• ^ 




2S^ > :- 


.v^ ’ * 


J 






j 5 i 


•tp: 



w 

- • ^2 






■r'r-.;\ 


A 


t 

» > 


k k' 


1?,-^ W wf..- 



H' 


, -w 




; *^-‘1 




."^i: *' - "jf < V;- - 

. « '• ^■■- ■**»•• *^ « • • 

'■’ ' "" ■' ' * ' ^’, •■ ’*« 

^ - ■ . ■ , ■- ,.r ‘u*; ■ ■•'?; 



■ vris ’•■ .• 

» .• ». •* : 

« - _ _ j 


T 4 


. * ■ 


7 k r. . 


‘■?^ '* , - ^ ^ * ' '< * - ** \ ' ‘ 
' . * ►v' . - ‘ i ^ - • • 


. AiT ■ :♦' 

•'* ■' • ’ ■ ‘ **i' -• ■* 

• • ‘ • - / :' - 

* ' •.: n 


. / 



•r. * ''• •.-:>W'. 

4 ^:- ■ -■'^ 


I 


~. % ■ ■ t 



y-^ 




. .. . 




. ' / 




^ ^ .fc .^. m. 'i ^ 

■ . r 




'ft •?■ ■■ : ■■':•" ; 


A. 




.< ( 


. t\7‘; 






‘to- 




^ l« 




.« 






' f/ ' ^ ■ 

y >^^^^ 


V'.^i 




. . •v..V‘ • •. : .. :•■ ••(.'•'•yjtir / .'*■» ^--V ■: ■ 


. r* 


l-r 


'h ^ ■'■yr'''-- -iy 





March, i887< 


BOOKS 

PUBLISHED BY 

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

’ 530 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 


THE CRISIS OF MISSIONS ; or, The Voice out 

of the Cloud. By the Rev. Arthur T. Pierson, D.D. 

i6mo 

“ It is as fascinating as a novel, and yet overflowing with facts 
that make one wonder how it can be possible that such great progress 
has been made in missions, even during the recent years, and he not 
have known more of it. This book can but stimulate the followers of 
Christ to greater love for, and more earnest efforts in, missions.” — 
Christian Work. 

“ This is a book for every Christian to read with prayer and a 
sincere desire to know his personal, duty in this great and glorious 
work.” — New York Observer. 

“ In. the little volume before us, the history of missions is un- 
rolled as a scroll, the marvellous providences of God are traced in let- 
ters which glow with the intensity of the writer’s convictions, the 
trumpet-call of God’s providences to the Christian world is sounded 
so loud and clear as to reach, one would think, the dullest ear.” — 

Baptist Herald. 

“ One of the most important books to the cause of Foreign Mis- 
sions — and through them to Home Missions also — which ever has 
been written. It should be in every library and every household. It 
should be read, studied, taken to heart, and prayed over.” — Congre-^ 
gationalist. 

*A. L. O. E. LIBRARY. 

50 vols., i6mo, in a neat wooden case, net 28.00 

“ All these stories have the charm and pure Christian character 
which have made the name of A. L. O. E. dear to thousands of 


homes.” — Lutheran. 

ARNOT, Rev. William. 

On the Parables. 1.75 

Church in the House; or, Lessons on the Acts of the 

Apostles. 1.50 

(I) 


BERNARD, T. D. 

The Progress of Doctrine in the New Testament. lamo ^1.25 
“The style is absolutely perfect. A broad, deep stream of fresh 
thought, in language as clear as crystal, flows through the whole de- 
vout, instructive, quickening, and inspiring work. Simply as a model 
of style, every preacher might profitably study it. . . . This volume 
makes the New Testament a new book to me.” — Rev. T. L. Cuy~ 
ler, D.D. 

BICKERSTETH, Rev. E. H. 

Yesterday, To-day, and Forever. A Poem. Pocket edi- 
tion, ^0.50; i6mo, ^i.oo; lamo j.50 

“ If any poem is destined to endure in the companionship of 
Milton’s hitherto matchless epic, we believe it will be ‘ Yesterday, 

To-day, and Forever .’” — London Globe. 

BLUNT’S Coincidences and Paley’s Horae Pau- 

linae. lamo 1.50 

80 NAR, Horatius, D.D. 

Hymns of Faith and Hope. 3 vols. i6mo » 2.25 

Bible Thoughts and Themes. 6 vols. i2mo .... 12.00 

Way of Peace 0.50 

Way of Holiness 0.60 

Night of Weeping 0.50 

Morning of Joy 0.60 

Follow the Lamb 0.40 

How shall I go to God ? 0.40 

BOWES, Rev. G. S. 

Scripture its own Illustrator. i2mo 1.50 

Information and Illustration. lamo ....... 1.50 

ERODIE, Emily. 

Jean Lindsay, The Vicar’s Daughter 1.25 

Dora Hamilton’s Choice, lamo 1.25 

Elsie Gordon. lamo 1.25 

Uncle Fred’s Shilling. lamo 1.25 

Lonely Jack. lamo 1.25 

Ruth’s Rescue. i6mo 0.50 

Nora Clinton. i2mo 1.25 

The Sea Gull’s Nest. i6mo 0.60 

Norman and Elsie. lamo 1.25 

Five Minutes too Late 1.25 

East and West 0.60 

His Guardian Angel . 1,23 

CHARLESWORTH, Miss M. L. 

Ministering Children. lamo 1.50 

“ “ i6mo i.oo 

Sequel to Ministering Children. lamo 1.50 

“ “ “ i6mo 


(2) 


CHARLES WORTH, Miss M. L., coitHmced. 

Oliver of the Mill. i2mo fi.oo 

Dorothy Cope, containing The Old Looking-Glass ” and 

“ Broken Looking-Glass.” lamo 1.50 

CUYLER, Rev. T. L. 

Pointed Papers. i2mo i.'^o 

Thought Hives. i2ino 1.50 

From Nile to Norway 1.50 

Empty Crib. 24mo i.oo 

Cedar Christian. i8mo 0.75 

Stray Arrows. i8mo 0.60 

God’s Light on Dark Clouds. Flexible, red edges ... 0.7s 

“In this beautiful little volume the author presents a grateful 
offering to the ‘ desponding and bereaved.’ . . . He offers to others 


what he has tested for himself. The book is written out of a full heart 


and a vivid experience.” — Presbyterian Review. 

^D’AUBIGNE, Dr. Merle. 

^History of the Reformation in the Sixteenth Century. 

5 vols., i2mo, cloth, in a box 4.50 

^History of the Reformation in the Time of Calvin. 8 vols., 

i2mo, cloth, in a box S.oo 


“The work is now complete ; and these later volumes, together 
with the original five, form a library relating to the Reformation of 
incalculable value and of intense interest. The pen of this master 
of history gave a charm to everything that he touched.” — New York 
Observer. 

*A very cheap edition of Reformation in the Sixteenth 

Century. 5 vols. in one, 890 pages, cloth i.oo 

DICKSON, Rev. Alexander, D.D. 


All about Jesus. lamo 2.00 

Beauty for Ashes. i2mo 2.00 


“ His book is a ‘ bundle of myrrh,’ and will be specially enjoyed 
by those who are in trouble.’’ — Rev. Dr. IV. M. Taylor. 

Luscious as a honeycomb, with sweetness drawn from God’s 


Word.” — Rev. Dr. Cuyler. 

DRINKWATER, Jennie M. 

Only Ned. i2mo i.2tt 

Not Bread Alone. i2mo 1.25 

Fred and Jeanie. i2mo 1.25 

Tessa Wadsworth’s Discipline. i2mo 1.50 

Rue’s Helps. i2mo 1.50 

Electa; A Story. i2mo 1.50 

Fifteen. 1.50 

Bek’s First Corner. i2mo 1.50 

Miss Prudence. 1.50 

The Story of Hannah. i2mo 1.50 

That Quisset House 1.50 

Isobel’s Between-Times 1.50 


GUTHRIE, Thomas, D.D. 

Life and Works of Thomas Guthrie, D.D. New, neat, 

and cheap edition in ii vols. lamo $io.oo 

Life, 2 vols. ; Gospel in Ezekiel ; Inheritance of the Saints ; 
Parables ; Speaking to the Heart ; Man and the Gospel ; Way to Life ; 

Studies of Character; The City and Ragged Schools; Out of Har- 
ness. (The volumes sold separately at $i.oo each.) 

“ His style is a model of Anglo-Saxon, strong, plain, rhythmi- 
cal, and earnest. It is music to read his rich and ringing sentences, 
all on fire of the Gospel. His sermons are more terse and educating 
than Spurgeon’s, broader and deeper than Beecher’s, and vivid, keen, 
convincing, and uplifting as only Guthrie’s own can be.” — Methodist 
Protestant. 

HAMILTON, Edward J., D.D. 


The Human Mind. 8vo 3.00 

Mental Science. lamo 2.00 

HAMLIN, Cyrus, D.D. 

Among the Turks. i2mo 1.50 

HANNA, William, D.D. 

Life of Christ. 3 vols. lamo 3.00 


HAUSSER, Ludwig. 

Period of the Reformation. New edition 2.50 

This admirable resume of the History of the Reformation in 
Germany, Switzerland, France, Denmark, Sweden, and England, by 
the late eminent German historian. Professor Hausser, offers in com- 
pact form information which has otherwise to be sought for over a wide 
field of literature. 


^HENRY’S Commentary on the Bible. 

3 vols. 4to, cloth 10.00 

* Another edition, in large type, 5 vols., 4to, cloth . . . 15.00 

*Still another edition, 9 vols., 8vo, cloth 20.00 


Persons desiring to purchase this Commentary can have a circu- 
lar sent them without charge giving a specimen page from each of 
these editions, by sending us their address. 

“ King of Bible explorers yet.” — Cuyler. 

“ First among the mighty, for general usefulness, we are bound 
to mention Matthew Henry.” — Spurgeon. 

” Sparkles with jewels of wisdom and incisive humor.” — Rev. 

Dr. JV. M. Taylor. 

‘‘Taking it as a whole, and as adapted to every class of readers, 
this Commentary may be said to combine more excellence than any 
work of the kind that was ever written in any language.” — Dr. 
Archibald Alexander. 

“There is nothing to be compared with old Matthew Henry’s " 
Commentary for pungent and practical applications of the teachings 
ot the text.” — Sunday-School Times. 

( 5 > 


EDWARDS, Jonathan. 

*Works. In 4 vols. 8vo » . . . $ 6.00 

“ I consider Jonathan Edwards the greatest of the sons of men.” 

— Robert Hall. 

FRASER, Dr. D. 

Synoptical Lectures on the Books of Holy Scripture. New 

and revised edition. 2 vols. i2mo 4.50 

“The plan is to give a general view of the scope and contents of 
each book in the Bible. It is designed not for professional students 
alone, but for all educated Christians. The careful reader will gain 
from its pages clear ideas of the arrangement, subject-matter, and 
salient features of the Sacred Scriptures .” — New York Observer. 

GIBERNE, Agnes. 


Aimee. A Tale of James II. i2mo 1.50 

The Curate’s Home. i6mo . 1.25 

Floss Silverthorn. i6mo 1.25 

Coulyng Castle. i6mo 1.50 

Muriel Bertram. i2mo 1.50 

The Sun, Moon, and Stars. i2mo 1.50 

The World’s Foundations ; or, Geology for Beginners. 

i2mo T.50 

Through the Linn. i6mo 1.25 

Sweetbriar. i2mo 1.50 

Duties and Duties. i6mo 1.25 

Jacob Witherby. i6mo 0.60 

Decima’s Promise. lamo 1.25 

Twilight Talks. i6mo 0.75 

Kathleen. 1.50 

Daily Evening Rest. i8mo i.oo 

Beryl and Pearl. i2mo • 1.50 

Old Umbrellas. i2mo 0.90 

Among the Stars ; or, Wonders in the Sky. i2mo . . . 1.50 

Madge Hard wicke i.oo 

Father Aldur : a Water Story 1.50 


OREEN, Prof. Wm. Henry, D.D. 

The Argument of the Book of Job Unfolded. i2mo . , 1.75 

“That ancient composition, so marvellous in beauty and so rich 
in philosophy, is here treated in a thoroughly analytical manner, and 
new depths and grander proportions of the divine original portrayed. 

It is a book to stimulate research.” — Methodist Recorder. 

Moses and the Prophets. lamo, cloth i.oo 

“ It has impressed me as one of the most thorough and conclusive 
pieces of apologetics that has been composed for a long time. The 
critic confines himself to the positions laid down by Smith, and, with- 
out being diverted by any side issues or bringing in any other views 
of other theorists, replies to those positions in a style that carries 
conviction.” — Professor JY. G. T, Shedd, D.D. 

The Hebrew Feasts. 1.5c 

( 4 ) 


N 


HODGE, A. A., D.D. 

Outlines of«Theology. Revised and enlarged edition. 8vo ^3.00 
“ At its first publication in i860, this work attracted much atten- 
tion, and ever since it has had a large sale, and been carefully studied 
both in this country and in Great Britain. It has been translated into 
Welsh and modern Greek, and has been used as a text-book in several 
theological schools.” — Presbyterian Banner. 


HODGE, Charles, D.D. 

On Romans. 8vo 3.00 

On Romans, Abridged, lamo 1.75 

On Ephesians. lamo . 1.75 

On Corinthians. 2 vols. lamo 3.50 


“ Most valuable. With no writer do we more fully agree. The 
more we use Hodge, the more we value him. This applies to all his 


Commentaries.” — Rev. C. H. Spurgeo 7 i. 

HOLT, Emily Sarah. 

Historical Tales. 

Isoult Barry. lamo 1.50 

Robin Tremayne. i2mo 1.50 

The Well in the Desert 1.25 

Ashcliffe Hall. i2mo 1.50 

Verena. A Tale. i2mo 1.50 

The White Rose of Langley. i2mo 1.50 

Imogen. i2mo 1.50 

Clare Avery. i2mo 1.50 

Lettice Eden. i2mo 1.50 

For the Master’s Sake i.oo 

Margery’s Son. lamo • 1.50 

Lady Sybil’s Choice. i2mo 1.50 

The Maiden’s Lodge. i2mo 1.25 

Earl Hubert’s Daughter 1.50 

Joyce Morrell’s Harvest. i2mo 1.50 

At ye Grene Griffin. lamo i.oo 

Red and White. lamo 1.50 

Not for Him. i2mo 1.25 

Wearyholme, i2mo 1.50 

John De Wicliffe. i2mo 1.25 

The Lord Mayor of London 1.50 

The Lord of the Marches 1.25 

A Tangled Web 1.50 

In All Time of our Tribulation 1.50 

JACOBUS, Melancthon W., D.D. 

Notes, Critical and Explanatory. 

Genesis. lamo 1.50 

Matthew and Mark 1.50 

Luke and John. i2mo 1.50 

Acts. i2mo . . , ' 1.50 


( 6 ) 


KITTO, John. 

Bible Illustrations. 8 vols. i2mo $7-oo 

“ They are >aot exactly commentaries, but what marvellous expo- 
sitions you have there ! You have reading more interesting than any 
novel that was ever written, and as instructive as the heaviest theol- 
ogy. The matter is quite attractive and fascinating, and yet so weighty 
that the man who shall study those volumes thoroughly will not fail to 
read his Bible Intelligently and with growing interest.” — Spurgeon. 

LEE, William. 

The Inspiration of the Holy Scriptures : Its Nature and 

Proof. 8vo 2.50 

. “ We consider ‘ Lee on Inspiration ’ as beyond all comparison 

superior to any work on the subject yet issued in our language.” — 


Church yoitrnal. 

LEIGHTON, Bishop. 

Complete Works. 8vo ...... v .... . 3.00 

LEWIS, Prof. Tayler. 

The Six Days of Creation. 1.50 

LORD, Willis, D.D. 

Christian Theology for the People. 8'’o 2.50 


“ I do not hesitate in expressing the opinion that this work is, so 
far as I know, the best book in existence for the purpose of popular 
instruction in theology.” — Dr. E. P. Humphrey. 

LOWRIE, Samuel T., D.D. 

The Epistles to the Hebrews Explained. 8vo .... 3.00 

“It gives evidence not only of diligent and thorough study, but 
of a high degree of scholarship and acquaintance with the Scriptures. 

. . . We think we hazard nothing in saying that this exposition of this 
important portion of Scripture is at least equal to any that has been 
produced in this country.” — Herald and Presbyter. 


MATHEWS, Joanna H. 

Bessie Books. 6 vols., in a box 7.50 

Flowerets. 6 vols., i8mo, in a box 3.60 

Little Sunbeams. 6 vols., in a box 6.00 

Kitty and Lulu Books. 6 vols., i8mo, in a box .... 3.60 

Miss Ashton’s Girls. 6 vols 7.50 

Haps and Mishaps. 6 vols., i6mo 7.50 

MATHEWS, Julia A. 

Dare to Do Right. 5 vols. i6mo 5.50 

Drayton Hall Series. 6 vols. . 4.50 

Golden Ladder Series. 3 vols 3.00 

( 7 ) 


McCOSH, Dr. 

*Works. New and neat edition. 5 vols., 8vo, uniform . ^10.00 
Comprising ; — 

1. Divine Government. 4. Defence of Fundamental 

2. Typical Forms. Truth. 

3. The Intuitions of the Mind. 5. The Scottish Philosophy. 

Any volume sold separately at 2.00 

“Thousands of earnest, thoughtful men have found treasures of 
argument, illustration, and learning in these pages, with which their 
minds and hearts have been enriched and fortified for better work and 


wider influences.” — New York Observer, 

Dr. McCosh’s Logic. i2mo 1.50 

Christianity and Positivism. lamo 1.7*5 

MACDUFF, J. R., D.D. 

Morning and Night Watches. 32mo _ . 0.50 

Mind and Words of Jesus, and Faithful Promiser . . . 0.50 

Footsteps of St. Paul 1.50 

Family Prayers. i6mo i.oo 

Morning Prayers for a Year 2.00 

The Bow in the Cloud 0.50 

Wells of Baca 0.50 

Gates of Prayer 0.75 

MILLER, Hugh. 

Life and Works. 12 vols. lamo 9.00 


Comprising “Life and Letters,” “Testimony of the Rocks,” 
“Old Red Sandstone,” “Footprints of the Creator,” “First Im- 
pressions of England,” “Schools and Schoolmasters,” “Tales and 
Sketches,” “ Popular Geology,” “ Cruise of the Betsey,” “ Essays,” 
and “ Headship of Christ.” 

These are sold only in sets ; but the separate works can be still 


got at the former prices, as follows : — 

Footprints of the Creator 1.50 

Old Red Sandstone 1.50 

Schools and Schoolmasters 1.50 

Testimony of the Rocks 1.50 

Cruise of the Betsey 1.50 

Popular Geology 1.50 

First Impressions of England 1.50 

Tales and Sketches 1,50 

Essays 1.50 

Headship of Christ 1.50 

Life of Miller. By Bayne. 2 vols 3.00 


“ Was there ever a more delightful style than that in which his 
works are written ? Smooth and easy in its flow, yet sparkling ever 
more, like the river as it reflects the sunbeam, and now and then rag- 
ing with torrent-like impetuosity, as it bears all opposition before it.” 
'—Rev. Dr, IV. M. Taylor. 


( 8 ) 


NEWTON, Richard, D.D. 

The Jewel Case. 6 vols. i6mo ?7-5o 

The Best Things 1.25 

The King’s Highway 1.25 

The Safe Compass 1.25 

Bible Blessings 1.25 

The Great Pilot 1.25 

Bible Jewels 1.25 

The Wonder Case. 6 vols. i6mo 7.50 

Bible Wonders 1.25 

Nature’s Wonders 1.25 

Leaves from the Tree 1.25 

Rills from the Fountain 1.25 

The Jewish Tabernacle 1.25 

Giants, and Wonderful Things 1.25 

Rays from the Sun of Righteousness . 1.25 

The King in His Beauty. i2mo 1.25 

Pebbles from the Brook 1.25 

Bible Promises. i6mo 1.25 

Bible Warnings. i2mo 1.25 

Covenant Names. lamo 1.50 


“ His books for children have never been excelled in their apti- 
tude to the young, and the pleasing form in which they convey religious 
truth. While they are called sermons, and each passage is expository 
of some passage of Scripture, they are so simple, so full of striking 
and apposite illustrations, that a child will read them with as much 
curiosity as he would a narrative of travel or adventure, and certainly 
with far more profit. ” — Episcopal Methodist. 

NEWTON, Rev. W. W- 


Little and Wise. i6mo 1.25 

The Wicket Gate. i6mo 1.25 

The Interpreter’s House. i6mo 1.25 

The Palace Beautiful. i6mo 1.25 

Great Heart. i6mo 1.25 

The Pilgrim Series, comprising the above five volumes 
in a box 6.00 

*OLIVE LIBRARY. 

40 large i6mo volumes, containing 15,340 pages, in a neat 
wooden case, net , ' 25.00 

PALEY, Wm. 

Evidences of Christianity. Edited by Professor Naime. 



PEEP OF DAY LIBRARY. 

8 vols., i8mo 4.50 

Line upon Line. i8mo 0.50 

Precept upon Precept. i8mo 0.50 

9 


/ 


PEEP OF DAY LIBRARY, continued. 

The Kings of Israel. i8mo 

The Kings of Judah. i8mo 

Captivity of Judah. i8mo 

Peep of Day. i8ino 

Sequel to Peep of Day. i8mo 

Story of the Apostles. i8mo * 

^POOL’S ANNOTATIONS. 

3 vols. Royal 8vo. 3,077 pages. In cloth. (Half the 

former price) 

“ Pool’s Annotations are sound, clear, and sensible; and, taking 
for all in all, I place him at the head of English commentators on the 
whole Bible.” — Rev. J. C. Ryle. 

PRIME, E. D. G., D.D. 

Forty Years in the Turkish Empire. A Memoir of Rev. 

W. Goodell, D.D. i2mo 

“ The genial spirit, the humor and wit, the shrewd sense, the sin- 
cere and cheerful piety of Dr, Goodell made him one of the most in- 
teresting companions, and now make his Memoir one of the most 
agreeable books.” — Bibliotheca Sacra. 

“ We know not what to say of ‘ Forty Years in the Turkish Em- 
pire,’ except to advise our readers to get the book at once and devote 
their first spare time to its perusal.” — Presbyterian. 

RYLE, J. C. 

Notes on the Gospels. 7 vols. lamo 

Matthew 

Mark 

Luke. 2 vols 

John. 3 vols 

“ It is the kernels without the shells, expressed in language 
adapted to the quick comprehension of all readers.” — Christian 
Union. 

“The ‘Expository Thoughts’ are excellent and useful aids to 
Bible study and devotion, and many souls will be comforted, blessed, 
and instructed by so clear, practical, and evangelical a work.^’ — New 
York Observer. 


$>0.60 

0.60 

0.60 

0.50 

0.60 

0.60 


7.50 


1.50 


10.50 

1.50 

1.50 
3.00 

4.50 


SHAW, Catharine. 

The Gabled Farm. i2mo 
Nellie Arundel. i2mo . 
In the Sunlight. lamo . 
Hilda. 121110 .... 
Only a Cousin. lamo . 
Out in the Storm. i8nio 
Alick’s Hero. i2mo . . 

Left to Ourselves. i2mo 
Fathoms Deep. i2mo , 
On the Cliffs .... 
Dickie’s Attic .... 


1.25 

1.25 

1.25 

1.25 

1.25 

0.50 

1.25 

T.OO 

1.25 

1.25 

1.25 


(10) 


SPURGEON’S WORKS. 

New Sermons. 

1. Storm Signals. lamo . I ^i.og 

2. Hands full of Honey. 1883 i.oo 

3. Return, O Shulamite I 1884 i.oo 

4. Healing and Service. 1885 i.oo 

5. Pleading for Prayer. 1886 i.oo 

6. Present Truth. lamo i.oo 

7. Types and Emblems. lamo i.oo 

SPURGEON’S SERMONS. 

Comprising nearly Two Hundred and Fifty Discourses, 
with complete Indexes of both Texts and Subjects. 10 

vols. i2mo 10.00 

None of the previous named volumes is in this set. 

SPURGEON’S SERMON NOTES. 

I. From Genesis to Proverbs i.oo 

II. From Ecclesiastes to Malachi i.oo 

III. From Matthew to Acts. Just ready i.oo 

IV. From Romans to Revelation. (Shortly) .... i.oo 
All of Grace. An Earnest Word with those who are 

seeking Salvation by the Lord Jesus Christ. (New.) 

i6mo 0.50 

Feathers for Arrows i.oo 

Morning by Morning ; or, Daily Readings i.oo 

Evening by Evening . . . . * i.oo 

Lectures to my Students. lamo i.oo 

John Ploughman’s Talk. i6mo 0.75 

John Ploughman’s Pictures. i6mo 0.75 

John Ploughman’s Talk and Pictures. In i vol. lamo . i.oo 

WALTON, Mrs. O. F. 

Christie’s Old Organ. i8mo 0.40 

Saved at Sea. i8mo 0.40 

Little Faith. i8mo 0.40 

Christie’s Organ, Saved at Sea, and Little Faith. In one 

vol. i6mo I.oo 

A Peep behind the Scenes. i6mo i.oo 

Was I Right ? i6mo i.oo 

Olive’s Story. i6mo 0.75 

Nobody Loves Me. i8mo 0.50 

Nobody Loves Me, and Olive’s Story. In one vol. i6mo i.oo 
Shadows : Scenes and Incidents in the Life of an Old Arm- 

Chair. i6mo I.oo 

^ Taken or Left. i8mo 0.40 

Poppy’s Presents 0.40 

(II) 


WARNER, Anna B. 

Blue Flag and Cloth of Gold. i2mo ^1.25 

Stories of Vinegar Hill. 3 vols. i6mo 3.00 

Ellen Montgomery’s Bookshelf. 5 vols, 5.00 

Little Jack’s Four Lessons. i8mo 0.50 

A Bag of Stories. i6mo 0.75 

The Shoes of Peace 0.75 

Tired Church-Members 0.50 

WARNER, Susan. 

The Old Helmet. 1.50 

Melbourne House. i2mo 1.50 

Pine Needles. A Tale 1.25 

My Desire. i2mo 1.50 

The End of a Coil 1.50 

The Letter of Credit 1.5c 

Nobody. i2mo 1.50 

Stephen, M.D. i2mo 1.50 

The Red Wallflower. i2mo 1.50 

Daisy Plains 1.50 

Small Beginnings. 4 vols 5.00 

Say and Do Series. 6 vols 7.50 

The King’s People. 5 vols 7.00 

“ There is a charm about Miss Warner’s books that insures each 
new volume of a welcome from a wide circle of readers.” — Herald 
and Presbyter. 

WIN AND WEAR SERIES. 

6 vols 7.50 

By the Same Author. 

Green Mountain Series. 5 vols., in a box 6.00 

Ledgeside Series. 6 vols., in a box 7.50 

Butterfly’s Flights. 3 vols., in a box 2.25 

The Highland Series. 6 vols., in a box 7.50 

Hester Trueworthy’s Royalty 1.25 

Mabel’s Step-mother 1.25 

Faith Thurston’s Work 1.25 

Robert Graham’s Promise 1.25 

The Gillettes. 6 vols 4.50 

YOUNG, John. 

The Christ of History. i2mo 1.25 

“ The work belongs to the highest class of the productions of 
modern disciplined genius. . . . We commend it heartily to all earnest 
thinkers, for such alone know the worth of a helpful London 

Morning A dvertiser. 



^ ' ** . V * • ■ ^■- w • 


j.- : ■ - .^ ^ • . 


• V 


< ^ . V 

- » - 


• / 


. > 


» . 


'r \* ■ ^7?..- ' ■ 

’■ **/.'• J- 

. ^ JL _ * V 


, j • 


f'> 






• *K 







•*• » 




• 




4> 


^ 4 



I* • j ' 

U 

■ ■ ■ • 



■;V, 




'T ; 


Ir 


I 



.^• 


k « - 


*:> 


• « 


. . «,' 


« 

"^V 






- 4 


' r 


• : 




'I 


r 


• . . 


* I 


^ » 


>■ > 


■. J‘-V: 

.- -- :■■ {-^-l 

-' :v;>- " ’V ■ :; 

'.■tV 

• "VV^'v. 

- - .:'* 

' *^ V'' >■’•* ■^■' ^ 

"' ‘- » '^‘ /yi* . ■' 

- - *''■ '"■■ 



■t 


/I V . V >'I^ V ./ 

’ -r-' > ' 

‘ 4 ■ ' *,_ _ . , - ■’ ." 


[>• 


‘ V.- i'' ^ ’ 

:'% ^ ' />.. ,• 

K. ' '^■* *, *- 

•A • •• ‘ / 

'..- »■»«,! %.••-*■ 

* \,*' ;.’»r‘V 

- ■ ' 

' . 




j • 


% , 


. 


' # 


/ 


^ :<.. A.V 


<■ 


'i ; *, . 


r 

4 

•V ' ■ 


i'-f’ 



r ,» 


»* * 


4 


• 



‘ \ 


. , ^ V ■ '^■' ‘y ’ • 

. T';.' t.'V X . '.6.\' 

'A j ” . 

V •- . - ■' , 

*• ^ , ♦ • 

• • ' • ' - % . 4 * 

' t/- . . ' . . ?V « ■ « 




■ * ’ ^ 


'*>■: 


' K • 

.. ^ ' 

t4 



V 

.T' 




ys‘.^ 

■,v.v 

■I ^ ‘ • . ' !!■'> I • 




' •■ * . , • , • , I . . . f,. ,• ,.: 

f; - ■ i- 






\ 



y 


■ 

‘ ^ . t'' ’ - E^HIBW u •’ * 

' ^ 5 ^nB>B)np 



•_ • ' ■', Y ■*■- ‘i A*.*“ ^ ^-h ^ V ' - -• ; ' 

• • '^'~^ V ' •**' ^ ' ^ -ii . - V ' '" ■ ' ^ _ 

’ -. '■ , '• '■^' ' . H- w ’‘'T-i' 

- flf" 


\_ • *' 

’ ■'i -— 


:.^9 ir-:c:.^ ■'■ 



' "•.i .. 

< k • 









'c ' 




JT 

. *!-■ 


. ' •*. < 


- • ''.- 




♦ ■* V 

• . » 




i.y :- 




• 3 --, 


r' * - 


k>* 


I; 


•/t •-• •, ■ -, 


e.' ^ 

> 




• » -4 • -' '“*-' "<* . ■ ■ . 

/ . - >- 
- i '•,*'- 

' »■ •. . • - •• » »• 






•*\^ - s 

- ^ ' i - 



A 









/ 



..•• . ■« 
_ «• ' * r 


k . ■^' . L‘ i^' - ,-. ^ ^ . ' 

> > i'.vv. ^ t.- i • V 

V.*? >sf ' . r* "■ 

•• • • 




I:. 


- ; - 




r<- . 


A.\' 



' ^ 

-V - 









.>: 


: .r 


♦ vjl . 



eiV''/_ 8 ! 

- V-- - - 


:??.v \ - •>: 





'-^-C , ■' 


^ > 
u 




. r 

p V 


‘ ' r-' 








• 'Tj 

Ji 


‘ ''?.* . '*>»'•- ■ ^ ■ -1 
< •• ' ■ * 

^v». - . • , . - 


< r 




^ • 





i.- 


t 

■*' ■'■"X- 







’^>Kr 


. .« 






